HEX 


LOF 


NINETY-HGHT 


A  NORTHLAND 


iCE 


ROBERT  W.  SmVICE 


f<t. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE   TRAIL   OF  '98 


We  were  In  a  caldron  of  fire.     The  roar  of 
doom  was  In  our  ears 

{page  143) 


THE  TRAIL  OF  '98 


A  Northland  Romance 


By 
ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 

AND 
BALLADS  OF  ACHEECHAKO 


With  illustrations  by 
MAYNARD    DIXON 


4. 


NEW     YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  iqio,  by 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


4037 


,-A 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

PAGE 

The  Road  to  Anywhere i 


BOOK  II 
The  Trail 49 

BOOK  III 
The  Camp 169 

BOOK  IV 
The  Vortex 321 


132G133 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

We  were  in  a  caldron  of  fire.    The  roar  of  doom  was 

in  our  ears   (p.   143)        .        .        ,        .         Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"  No,"  she  said  firmly,  "  you  can't  see  the  girl  "  .        .      116 

Then,  as  I  hung  half  in,  half  out  of  the  window,  he 

clutched  me  by  the  throat 316 

"  Garry,"  I  said,  "  this  is — this  is  Berna  "  .        .        .     476 


This  is  the  law  of  the  Yukon,  and  ever  she  makes  it  plain: 
"  Send  not  your  foolish  and  feeble ;  send  me  your  strong  and 

your  sane. 
Strong  for  the  red  rage  of  battle ;  sane,  for  I  harry  them  sore ; 
Send  me  men  girt  for  the  combat,  men  who  are  grit  to  the 

core; 
Swift  as  the  panther  in  triumph,  fierce  as  the  bear  in  defeat, 
Sired  of  a  bulldog  parent,  steeled  in  the  furnace  heat. 
Send  me  the  best  of  your  breeding,  lend  me  your  chosen  ones; 
Them  will  I  take  to  my  bosom,  them  will  I  call  my  sons; 
Them  will  I  gild  with  my  treasure,  them  will  I  glut  with  my 

meat; 
But  the  others — the  misfits,  the  failures — I  trample  under 

my  feet." 

— "  Songs  of  a  Sourdough." 


PRELUDE 

The  north  wind  is  keening  overhead.  It  minds  me 
of  the  howl  of  a  wolf-dog  under  the  Arctic  stars. 
Sitting  alone  by  the  glow  of  the  great  peat  fire  I  can 
hear  it  high  up  in  the  braeside  firs.  It  is  the  voice, 
inexorably  scornful,  of  the  Great  White  Land. 

Oh,  I  hate  it,  I  hate  it!  Why  cannot  a  man  be 
allowed  to  forget?  It  is  near  ten  years  since  I 
joined  the  Eager  Army.  I  have  travelled :  I  have 
been  a  pilgrim  to  the  shrines  of  beauty;  I  have  pur- 
sued the  phantom  of  happiness  even  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.     Still  it  is  always  the  same — I  cannot  forget. 

Why  should  a  man  be  ever  shadowed  by  the  vam- 
pire wing  of  his  past?  Have  I  not  a  right  to  be 
happy?  Money,  estate,  name,  are  mine,  all  that 
means  an  open  sesame  to  the  magic  door.  Others  go 
in,  but  I  beat  against  its  flinty  portals  with  hands  that 
bleed.  No!  I  have  no  right  to  be  happy.  The 
ways  of  the  world  are  open;  the  banquet  of  life  is 
spread;  the  wonder-workers  plan  their  pageants  of 
beauty  and  joy,  and  yet  there  is  no  praise  in  my 
heart.  I  have  seen,  I  have  tasted,  I  have  tried. 
Ashes  and  dust  and  bitterness  are  all  my  gain.  I  will 
try  no  more.     It  is  the  shadow  of  the  vampire  wing. 

So  I  sit  in  the  glow  of  the  great  peat  fire,  tired  and 
sad  beyond  belief.  .Thank  God !  at  least  I  am  home. 
Everything  is  so  little  changed.     The  fire  lights  the 

ix 


X  .  PRELUDE 

oak-panelled  hall;  the  crossed  claymores  gleam;  the 
eyes  in  the  mounted  deer-heads  shine  glassily;  rugs 
of  fur  cover  the  polished  floor;  all  is  comfort,  home 
and  the  haunting  atmosphere  of  my  boyhood.  Some- 
times I  fancy  it  has  been  a  dream,  the  Great  White 
Silence,  the  lure  of  the  gold-spell,  the  delirium  of  the 
struggle;  a  dream,  and  I  will  awake  to  hear  Garry 
calling  me  to  shoot  over  the  moor,  to  see  dear  little 
Mother  with  her  meek,  sensitive  mouth,  and  her 
cheeks  as  delicately  tinted  as  the  leaves  of  a  briar 
rose.  But  no !  The  hall  is  silent.  Mother  has 
gone  to  her  long  rest.  Garry  sleeps  under  the  snow. 
Silence  everywhere ;  I  am  alone,  alone. 

So  I  sit  in  the  big,  oak-carved  chair  of  my  fore- 
fathers, before  the  great  peat  fire,  a  peak-faced  droop- 
ing figure  of  a  man  with  hair  untimely  grey.  My 
crutch  lies  on  the  floor  by  my  side.  My  old  nurse 
comes  up  quietly  to  look  at  the  fire.  Her  rosy, 
wrinkled  face  smiles  cheerfully,  but  I  can  see  the 
anxiety  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  is  afraid  for  me. 
Maybe  the  doctor  has  told  her — something. 

No  doubt  my  days  are  numbered,  so  I  am  minded 
to  tell  of  it  all :  of  the  Big  Stampede,  of  the  Treas- 
ure Trail,  of  the  Gold-born  City;  of  those  who  fol- 
lowed the  gold-lure  into  the  Great  White  Land,  of 
the  evil  that  befell  them,  of  Garry  and  of  Berna. 
Perhaps  it  will  comfort  me  to  tell  of  these  things. 
To-morrow  I  will  begin;  to-night,  leave  me  to  my 
memories. 

Berna !  I  spoke  of  her  last.  She  rises  before  me 
now  with  her  spirit-pale  face  and  her  great  troubleful 


PRELUDE  xi 

grey  eyes,  a  little  tragic  figure,  ineffably  pitiful. 
Where  are  you  now,  little  one  ?  I  have  searched  the 
world  for  you.  I  have  scanned  a  million  faces.  Day 
and  night  have  I  sought,  always  hoping,  always 
baffled,  for,  God  help  me,  dear,  I  love  you.  Among 
that  mad,  lusting  horde  you  were  so  weak,  so  help- 
less, yet  so  hungry  for  love. 

With  the  aid  of  my  crutch  I  unlatch  one  of  the 
long  windows,  and  step  out  onto  the  terrace.  From 
the  cavernous  dark  the  snowflakes  sting  my  face. 
Yet  as  I  stand  there,  once  more  I  have  a  sense  of 
another  land,  of  imperious  vastitudes,  of  a  silent  em- 
pire, unfathomably  lonely. 

Ghosts !  They  are  all  around  me.  The  darkness 
teems  with  them,  Garry,  my  brother,  among  them. 
Then  they  all  fade  and  give  way  to  one  face.  .  .  . 

Berna,  I  love  you  always.  Out  of  the  night  I  cry 
to  you,  Berna,  the  cry  of  a  broken  heart.  Is  it  your 
little,  pitiful  ghost  that  comes  down  to  me?  Oh,  I 
am  waiting,  waiting!  Here  will  I  wait,  Berna,  till  we 
meet  once  more.  For  meet  w€  will,  beyond  the  mists, 
beyond  the  dreaming,  at  last,  dear  love,  at  last. 


BOOK  I 
THE   ROAD   TO   ANYWHERE 


Can  you  recall,  dear  comrade,  when  we  tramped  God's  land 
together, 
And  we  sang  the  old,  old  Earth-Song,  for  our  youth  was 
very  sweet ; 
When  we  drank  and  fought  and  lusted,  as  we  mocked  at  tie 
and  tether. 
Along  the  road  to  Anywhere,  the  wide  world  at  our  feet. 

Along  the  road  to  Anywhere,  when  each  day  had  its  story; 
When  time  was  yet  our  vassal,  and  life's  jest  was  still 
unstale ; 
When   peace   unfathomed   filled   our   hearts   as,   bathed    in 
amber  glory, 
Along  the   road   to   Anywhere  we   watched   the   sunsets 
pale. 

Alas !  the  road  to  An3avhere  is  pitfalled  with  disaster  ; 

There's  hunger,  want,  and  weariness,  yet  O  we  loved  it  so !        , 
As  on  we  tramped  exultantly,  and  no  man  was  our  master. 
And  no  man  guessed  what  dreams  were  ours,  as  swinging 
heel  and  toe. 
We  tramped  the  road  to  Anywhere,  the  magic  road  to  Any- 
where, 
The  tragic  road  to  Anywhere  such  dear,  dim  years  ago. 

— "  Songs  of  a  Sourdough." 


CHAPTER  I 

As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  I  have  faithfully  fol- 
lowed the  banner  of  Romance.  It  has  given  colour 
to  my  life,  made  me  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  a  player 
of  parts.  As  a  boy,  roaming  alone  the  wild  heather 
hills,  I  have  heard  the  glad  shouts  of  the  football 
players  on  the  green,  yet  never  ettled  to  join  them. 
Mine  was  the  richer,  rarer  joy.  Still  can  I  see  my- 
self in  those  days,  a  little  shy-mannered  lad  In  kilts, 
bareheaded  to  the  hill  breezes,  with  health-bright 
cheeks,  and  a  soul  happed  up  in  dreams. 

And,  indeed,  I  lived  in  an  enchanted  land,  a  land 
of  griffins  and  kelpies,  of  princesses  and  gleaming 
knights.  From  each  black  tarn  I  looked  to  see  a 
scaly  reptile  rise,  from  every  fearsome  cave  a  corby 
emerge.  There  were  green  spaces  among  the  heather 
where  the  fairies  danced,  and  every  scaur  and  linn 
had  its  own  familiar  spirit.  I  peopled  the  good 
green  wood  with  the  wild  creatures  of  my  thought, 
nymph  and  faun,  naiad  and  dryad,  and  would  have 
been  in  nowise  surprised  to  meet  in  the  leafy  coolness 
the  great  god  Pan  himself. 

It  was  at  night,  however,  that  my  dreams  were 
most  compelling.  I  strove  against  the  tyranny  of 
sleep.  Lying  in  my  small  bed,  1  revelled  In  delectable 
imaginings.  Night  after  night  I  fought  battles,  de- 
vised pageants,  partitioned  empires.     I  gloried  in  de- 

3 


4  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

tails.  My  rugged  war-lords  were  very  real  to  me, 
and  my  adventures  sounded  many  periods  of  his- 
tory. I  was  a  solitary  caveman  with  an  axe  of  stone ; 
I  was  a  Roman  soldier  of  fortune;  I  was  a  Highland 
outlaw  of  the  Rebellion.  Always  I  fought  for  a  lost 
cause,  and  always  my  sympathies  were  with  the  rebel. 
I  feasted  with  Robin  Hood  on  the  King's  venison; 
I  fared  forth  with  Dick  Turpin  on  the  gibbet-haunted 
heath;  I  followed  Morgan,  the  Buccaneer,  into 
strange  and  exotic  lands  of  trial  and  treasure.  It 
was  a  wonderful  gift  of  visioning  that  was  mine  in 
those  days.  It  was  the  bird-like  flight  of  the  pure 
child-mind  to  whom  the  unreal  is  yet  the  real. 

Then,  suddenly,  I  arrived  at  a  second  phase  of 
my  mental  growth  in  which  fancy  usurped  the  place 
of  imagination.  The  modern  equivalents  of  Ro- 
mance attracted  me,  and,  with  my  increasing  grasp 
of  reality,  my  gift  of  vision  faded.  As  I  had  hith- 
erto dreamed  of  knight-errants,  of  corsairs  and  of 
outlaws,  I  now  dreamed  of  cowboys,  of  gold-seekers, 
of  beach-combers.  Fancy  painted  scenes  in  which  I, 
too,  should  play  a  rousing  part.  I  read  avidly  all  I 
could  find  dealing  with  the  Far  West,  and  ever  my 
wistful  gaze  roved  over  the  grey  sea.  The  spirit 
of  Romance  beaconed  to  me.  I,  too,  would  ad- 
venture in  the  stranger  lands,  and  face  their  perils 
and  brave  their  dangers.  The  joy  of  the  thought 
exulted  in  my  veins,  and  scarce  could  I  bide  the  day 
when  the  roads  of  chance  and  change  would  be  open 
to  my  feet. 

It  is  strange  that  in  all  these  years  I  confided  in 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  5 

no  one.  Garry,  who  was  my  brother  and  my  dearest 
friend,  would  have  laughed  at  me  in  that  affectionate 
way  of  his.  You  would  never  have  taken  us  for 
brothers.  We  were  so  different  in  temperament  and 
appearance  that  we  were  almost  the  reverse  of  each 
other.  He  was  the  handsomest  boy  I  have  ever 
seen,  frank,  fair-skinned  and  winning,  while  I  was 
dark,  dour  and  none  too  well  favoured.  He  was 
the  best  runner  and  swimmer  in  the  parish,  and  the 
idol  of  the  village  lads.  I  cared  nothing  for  games, 
and  would  be  found  somewhere  among  the  heather 
hills,  always  by  my  lone  self,  and  nearly  always  with 
a  story  book  in  my  pocket.  He  was  clever,  prac- 
tical and  ambitious,  excelling  in  all  his  studies; 
whereas,  except  in  those  which  appealed  to  my 
imagination,  I  was  a  dullard  and  a  dreamer. 

Yet  we  loved  each  others  as  few  brothers  do.  Oh, 
how  I  admired  him  !  He  was  my  ideal,  and  too  often 
the  hero  of  my  romances.  Garry  would  have 
laughed  at  my  hero-worship;  he  was  so  matter-of- 
fact,  effective  and  practical.  Yet  he  understood  me, 
my  Celtic  ideality,  and  that  shy  reserve  which  is  the 
armour  of  a  sensitive  soul.  Garry  in  his  fine  clever 
way  knew  me  and  shielded  me  and  cheered  me.  He 
was  so  buoyant  and  charming  he  heartened  you  like 
Spring  sunshine,  and  braced  you  like  a  morning  wind 
on  the  mountain  top.  Yes,  not  excepting  Mother, 
Gariy  knew  me  better  than  any  one  has  ever  done, 
and  I  loved  him  for  it.  It  seems  overfond  to  say 
this,  but  he  did  not  have  a  fault:  tenderness,  humour, 
enthusiasm,  sympathy  and  the  beauty  of  a  young  god 


6  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

— all  that  was  manfully  endearing  was  expressed  In 
this  brother  of  mine. 

So  we  grew  to  manhood  there  in  that  West  High- 
land country,  and  surely  our  lives  were  pure  and 
simple  and  sweet.  I  had  never  been  further  from 
home  than  the  little  market  town  where  we  sold  our 
sheep.  Mother  managed  the  estate  till  Garry  was 
old  enough,  when  he  took  hold  with  a  vigour  and 
grasp  that  delighted  every  one.  I  think  our  little 
Mother  stood  rather  in  awe  of  my  keen,  capable, 
energetic  brother.  There  was  in  her  a  certain 
dreamy,  wistful  idealism  that  made  her  beautiful  in 
my  eyes,  and  to  look  on  she  was  as  fair  as  any  pic- 
ture. Specially  do  I  remember  the  delicate  colouring 
of  her  face  and  her  eyes,  blue  like  deep  corn-flowers. 
She  was  not  overstrong,  and  took  much  comfort  from 
religion.  Her  lips,  which  were  fine  and  sensitive, 
had  a  particularly  sweet  expression,  and  I  wish  to 
record  of  her  that  never  once  did  I  see  her  cross, 
always  sweet,  gentle,  smiling. 

Thus  our  home  was  an  ideal  one;  Garry,  tall,  fair 
and  winsome;  myself,  dark,  dreamy,  reticent;  and  be- 
tween us,  linking  all  three  In  a  perfect  bond  of  love 
and  sympathy,  our  gentle,  delicate  Mother. 


CHAPTER  II 

So  in  serenity  and  sunshine  the  days  of  my  youth  went 
past.  I  still  maintained  my  character  as  a  drone  and 
a  dreamer.  I  used  my  time  tramping  the  moorland 
with  a  gun,  whipping  the  foamy  pools  of  the  bum  for 
trout,  or  reading  voraciously  in  the  library.  Mostly 
I  read  books  of  travel,  and  especially  did  I  relish  the 
literature  of  Vagabondia.  I  had  come  under  the 
spell  of  Stevenson.  His  name  spelled  Romance  to 
me,  and  my  fancy  etched  him  in  his  lonely  exile. 
Forthright  I  determined  I  too  would  seek  these 
ultimate  islands,  and  from  that  moment  I  was  a 
changed  being.  I  nursed  the  thought  with  joyous  en- 
thusiasm. I  would  be  a  frontiersman,  a  trail-breaker, 
a  treasure-seeker.  The  virgin  prairies  called  to  me; 
the  susurrus  of  the  giant  pines  echoed  in  my  heart; 
but  most  of  all,  I  felt  the  spell  of  those  gentle  islands 
where  care  is  a  stranger,  and  all  is  sunshine,  song  and 
the  glowing  bloom  of  eternal  summer. 

About  this  time  Mother  must  have  worried  a 
good  deal  over  my  future.  Garry  was  now  the 
young  Laird,  and  I  was  but  an  idler,  a  burden  on  the 
estate.  At  last  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  go  abroad, 
and  then  it  seemed  as  if  a  great  difficulty  was  solved. 
We  remembered  of  a  cousin  who  was  sheep-ranching 
in  the  Saskatchewan  valley  and  had  done  well.  It 
was  arranged  that  I  should  join  him  as  a  pupil,  then, 

7 


8  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

when  I  had  learned  enough,  buy  a  place  of  my  own. 
It  may  be  Imagined  that  while  I  apparently  acquiesced 
in  this  arrangement,  I  had  already  determined  that 
as  soon  as  I  reached  the  new  land  I  would  take  my 
destiny  into  my  own  hands. 

I  will  never  forget  the  damp  journey  to  Glasgow 
and  the  misty  landscape  viewed  through  the  stream- 
ing window  pane  of  a  railway  carriage.  I  was  In  a 
wondrous  state  of  elation.  When  we  reached  the 
great  smoky  city  I  was  lost  in  amazement  not  unmixed 
with  fear.  Never  had  I  imagined  such  crowds,  such 
houses,  such  hurry.  The  three  of  us,  Mother,  Garry 
and  I,  wandered  and  wondered  for  three  days.  Folks 
gazed  at  us  curiously,  sometimes  admiringly,  for 
our  cheeks  were  bright  with  Highland  health,  and 
our  eyes  candid  as  the  June  skies.  Garry  In  par- 
ticular, tall,  fair  and  handsome,  seemed  to  call  forth 
glances  of  interest  wherever  he  went.  Then  as  the 
hour  of  my  departure  drew  near  a  shadow  fell 
on  us. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  our  leave-taking.  If  I  broke 
down  In  unmanly  grief,  it  must  be  remembered  I  had 
never  before  been  from  home.  I  was  but  a  lad,  and 
these  two  were  all  In  all  to  me.  Mother  gave  up 
trying  to  be  brave,  and  mingled  her  tears  with  mine. 
Garry  alone  contrived  to  make  some  show  of  cheer- 
fulness. Alas !  all  my  elation  had  gone.  In  its 
place  was  a  sense  of  guilt,  of  desertion,  of  unconquer- 
able gloom.  I  had  an  Inkling  then  of  the  tragedy  of 
motherhood,  the  tender  love  that  would  hold  yet  can- 
not, the  world-call  and  the  ruthless,  estranging  years, 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  9 

all  the  memories  of  clinging  love  given  only  to  be 
taken  away. 

"  Don't  r-y,  sweetheart  Mother,"  I  said;  "  I'll  be 
back  again  in  three  years." 

"  Mind  you  do,  my  boy,  mind  you  do." 

She  looked  at  me  woefully  sad,  and  I  had  a  queer, 
heartrending  prevision  I  would  never  see  her  more. 
Garry  was  supporting  her,  and  she  seemed  to  have 
suddenly  grown  very  frail.  He  was  pale  and  quiet, 
but  I  could  see  he  was  vastly  moved. 

"  Athol,"  said  he,  "  if  ever  you  need  me  just  send 
for  me.  I'll  come,  no  matter  how  long  or  how  hard 
the  way." 

I  can  see  them  to  this  day  standing  there  in  the 
drenching  rain,  Garry  fine  and  manly.  Mother  small 
and  drooping.  I  can  see  her  with  her  delicate  rose 
colour,  her  eyes  like  wood  violets  drowned  in  tears, 
her  tender,  sensitive  lips  quivering  with  emotion. 

"  Good-bye,  laddie,  good-bye." 

I  forced  myself  away,  and  stumbled  on  board. 
When  I  looked  back  again  they  were  gone,  but 
through  the  grey  shadows  there  seemed  to  come  back 
to  me  a  cry  of  heartache  and  irremediable  loss. 

*'  Good-bye,  good-bye." 


CHAPTER  III 

It  was  on  a  day  of  early  Autumn  when  I  stood 
knee-deep  in  the  heather  of  Glengyle,  and  looked 
wistfully  over  the  grey  sea.  'Twas  but  a  month 
later  when,  homeless  and  friendless,  I  stood  on  the 
beach  by  the  Cliff  House  of  San  Francisco,  and  gazed 
over  the  fretful  waters  of  another  ocean.  Such  is 
the  romance  of  destiny. 

Consigned,  so  to  speak,  to  my  cousin  the  sheep- 
raiser  of  the  Saskatchewan,  I  found  myself  setting 
foot  on  the  strange  land  with  but  little  heart  for  my 
new  vocation.  My  mind,  cramful  of  book  notions, 
craved  for  the  larger  life.  I  was  valiantly  mad  for 
adventure;  to  fare  forth  haphazardly;  to  come  upon 
naked  danger;  to  feel  the  bludgeonings  of  mischance; 
to  tramp,  to  starve,  to  sleep  under  the  stars.  It  was 
the  callow  boy-idea  perpetuated  in  the  man,  and  it 
was  to  lead  me  a  sorry  dance.  But  I  could  not  over- 
bear it.  Strong  in  me  was  the  spirit  of  the  gypsy. 
The  joy  of  youth  and  health  was  brawling  in  my 
veins.  A  few  thistledown  years,  said  I,  would  not 
matter.  And  there  was  Stevenson  and  his  glamorous 
islands  winning  me  on. 

So  it  came  about  I  stood  solitary  on  the  beach  by 
the  seal  rocks,  with  a  thousand  memories  confusing 
in  my  head.  There  was  the  long  train  ride  with  its 
strange  pictures :  the  crude  farms,  the  glooming  for- 
ests, the  gleaming  lakes  that  would  drown  my  whole 

lO 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  ii 

country,  the  aching  plains,  the  mountains  that  rip- 
sawed  the  sky,  the  fear-made-eternal  of  the  desert. 
Lastly,  a  sudden,  sunlit  paradise,  California. 

I  had  lived  through  a  week  of  wizardry  such  as 
I  had  never  dreamed  of,  and  here  was  I  at  the  very 
throne  of  Western  empire.  And  what  a  place  it  was, 
and  what  a  people — with  the  imperious  mood  of  the 
West  softened  by  the  spell  of  the  Orient  and  mel- 
lowed by  the  glamour  of  Old  Spain.  San  Francisco! 
A  score  of  tongues  clamoured  in  her  streets  and  In 
her  byeways  a  score  of  races  lurked  austerely.  She 
suckled  at  her  breast  the  children  of  the  old  grey 
nations  and  gave  them  of  her  spirit,  that  swift  pur- 
poseful spirit  so  proud  of  past  achievement  and  so 
convinced  of  glorious  destiny. 

I  marvelled  at  the  rush  of  affairs  and  the  zest  of 
amusement.  Every  one  seemed  to  be  making  money 
easily  and  spending  it  eagerly.  Every  one  was  happy, 
sanguine,  strenuous.  At  night  Market  Street  was  a 
dazzling  alley  of  light,  where  stalwart  men  and  hand- 
some women  jostled  in  and  out  of  the  glittering 
restaurants.  Yet  amid  this  eager,  passionate  life  I 
felt  a  dreary  sense  of  outsldeness.  At  times  my 
heart  fairly  ached  with  loneliness,  and  I  wandered 
the  pathways  of  the  park,  or  sat  forlornly  in  Ports- 
mouth Square  as  remote  from  it  all  as  a  gazer  on  his 
mountain  top  beneath  the  stars. 

I  became  a  dreamer  of  the  water  front,  for  the  no- 
tion of  the  South  Seas  was  ever  in  my  head.  I  loafed 
in  the  sunshine,  sitting  on  the  pier-edge,  with  eyes 
fixed  on  the  lazy  shipping.     These  were  care-free, 


12  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

irresponsible  days,  and  not,  I  am  now  convinced, 
entirely  misspent.  I  came  to  know  the  worthies  of 
the  wharfside,  and  plunged  into  an  under-world  of 
fascinating  repellency.  Crimpdom  eyed  and  tempted 
me,  but  it  was  always  with  whales  or  seals,  and  never 
with  pearls  or  copra.  I  rubbed  shoulders  with  eager 
necessity,  scrambled  for  free  lunches  in  frowsy  bar- 
rooms, and  amid  the  scum  and  debris  of  the  waterside 
found  much  food  for  sober  thought.  Yet  at  times  I 
blamed  myself  for  thus  misusing  my  days,  and 
memories  of  Glengyle  and  Mother  and  Garry  loomed 
up  with  reproachful  vividness. 

I  was,  too,  a  seeker  of  curious  experience,  and 
this  was  to  prove  my  undoing.  The  night-side  of 
the  city  was  unveiled  to  me.  With  the  assurance  of 
innocence  I  wandered  everywhere.  I  penetrated  the 
warrens  of  underground  Chinatown,  wondering  why 
white  women  lived  there,  and  why  they  hid  at  sight 
of  me.  Alone  I  poked  my  way  into  the  opium  joints 
and  the  gambling  dens.  Vice,  amazingly  unabashed, 
flaunted  itself  in  my  face.  I  wondered  what  my  grim. 
Covenanting  ancestors  would  have  made  of  it  all.  I 
never  thought  to  have  seen  the  like,  and  in  my  inex- 
perience it  was  like  a  shock  to  me. 

My  nocturnal  explorations  came  to  a  sudden  end. 
One  foggy  midnight,  coming  up  Pacific  Street  with 
its  glut  of  saloons,  I  was  clouted  shrewdly  from  be- 
hind and  dropped  most  neatly  in  the  gutter.  When 
I  came  to,  very  sick  and  dizzy  in  a  side  alley,  I 
found  I  had  been  robbed  of  my  pocketbook  with 
nearly  all  my  money  therein.     Fortunately  I  had  left 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  13 

my  watch  in  the  hotel  safe,  and  by  selhng  it  was  not 
entirely  destitute;  but  the  situation  forced  me  from 
my  citadel  of  pleasant  dreams,  and  confronted  me 
with  the  grimmer  realities  of  life. 

I  became  a  habitue  of  the  ten-cent  restaurant.  I 
was  amazed  to  find  how  excellent  a  meal  I  could 
have  for  ten  cents.  Oh  for  the  uncaptious  appetite 
of  these  haphazard  days !  With  some  thirty-odd 
dollars  standing  between  me  and  starvation,  it  was 
obvious  I  must  become  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a  drawer 
of  water,  and  to  this  end  I  haunted  the  employment 
offices.  They  were  bare,  sordid  rooms,  crowded  by 
men  who  chewed,  swapped  stories,  yawned  and 
studied  the  blackboards  where  the  day's  wants  were 
set  forth.  Only  driven  to  labour  by  dire  necessity, 
their  lives,  I  found,  held  three  phases — looking  for 
work,  working,  spending  the  proceeds.  They  were 
the  Great  Unskilled,  face  to  face  with  the  necessary 
evil  of  toil. 

One  morning,  on  seeking  my  favourite  labour 
bureau,  I  found  an  unusual  flutter  among  the  bench- 
warmers.  A  big  contractor  wanted  fifty  men  im- 
mediately. No  experience  was  required,  and  the 
wages  were  to  be  two  dollars  a  day.  With  a  number 
of  others  I  pressed  forward,  was  interviewed  and  ac- 
cepted. The  same  day  we  were  marched  in  a  body  to 
the  railway  depot  and  herded  into  a  fourth-class  car. 

Where  we  were  going  I  knew  not;  of  what  we  were 
going  to  do  I  had  no  inkling.  I  only  knew  we  were 
southbound,  and  at  long  last  I  might  fairly  consider 
myself  to  be  the  shuttlecock  of  fortune. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  LEFT  San  Francisco  blanketed  in  grey  fog  and 
besomed  by  a  roaring  wind;  when  I  opened  my  eyes 
I  was  in  a  land  of  spacious  sky  and  broad,  clean  sun- 
shine. Orange  groves  rushed  to  welcome  us; 
orchards  of  almond  and  olive  twinkled  joyfully  in 
the  limpid  air;  tall,  gaunt  and  ragged,  the  scaly 
eucalyptus  fluttered  at  us  a  morning  greeting,  while 
snowy  houses,  wallowing  in  greenery,  flashed  a  smile 
as  we  rumbled  past.  It  seemed  like  a  land  of  prom- 
ise, of  song  and  sunshine,  and  silent  and  apart  I  sat  to 
admire  and  to  enjoy. 

"Looks  pretty  swell,  don't  it?" 

I  will  call  him  the  Prodigal.  He  was  about  my 
own  age,  thin,  but  sun-browned  and  healthy.  His 
hair  was  darkly  red  and  silky,  his  teeth  white  and 
even  as  young  corn.  His  eyes  twinkled  with  a  humor- 
some  light,  but  his  face  was  shrewd,  alert  and  ag- 
gressive. 

"  Yes,"  I  said  soberly,  for  I  have  always  been  back- 
ward with  strangers. 

"  Pretty  good  line.  The  banana  belt.  Old  Sol 
working  overtime.  Blossom  and  fruit  cavorting  on 
the  same  tree.  Eternal  summer.  Land  of  the 
mahana,  the  festive  frijole,  the  never-chilly  chili. 
Ever  been  here  before?" 

"  No." 

14 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  15 

"  Neither  have  I.  Glad  I  came,  even  if  it's  to  do 
the  horny-handed  son  of  toil  stunt.  Got  the  mak- 
ings  f 

"  No,  I'm  sorry;  I  don't  smoke." 

"  All  right,  guess  I  got  enough." 

He  pulled  forth  a  limp  sack  of  powdery  tobacco, 
and  spilled  some  grains  into  a  brown  cigarette  paper, 
twisting  it  deftly  and  bending  over  the  ends.  Then 
he  smoked  with  such  enjoyment  that  I  envied  him. 

"Where  are  we  going,  have  you  any  idea?"  I 
asked. 

"  Search  me,"  he  said,  inhaling  deeply;  "  the  guy 
in  charge  isn't  exactly  a  free  information  bureau. 
When  it  comes  to  peddling  the  bull  con  he's  there, 
but  when  you  try  to  pry  off  a  few  slabs  of  cold  hard 
fact  it's  his  Sunday  off." 

"  But,"  I  persisted,  "  have  you  no  idea?  " 

"Well,  one  thing  you  can  bank  on,  they'll  work 
the  Judas  out  of  us.  The  gentle  grafter  nestles  in 
our  midst.  This  here's  a  cinch  game  and  we  are  the 
fall  guys.  The  contractors  are  a  bum  outfit.  They'll 
squeeze  us  at  every  turn.  There  was  two  plunks  to 
the  employment  mart;  they  got  half.  Twenty  for 
railway  fare;  they  come  in  on  that.  Stop  at  certain 
hotels:  a  rake-off  there.  Stage  fare:  more  graft. 
Five  dollars  a  week  for  board:  costs  them  two-fifty, 
and  they  will  be  stomach  robbers  at  that.  Then 
they'll  ring  in  twice  as  many  men  as  they  need,  and 
lay  us  off  half  the  time,  so  that  we  just  about  even 
up  on  our  board  bill.  Oh,  I'm  onto  their  curves  all 
right." 


i6  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

*'  Then,"  I  said,  "  If  you  know  so  much  why  did 
you  come  with  us?  " 

"  Well,  if  I  know  so  much  you  just  bet  I  know 
some  more.  I'll  go  one  better.  You  watch  my 
smoke." 

He  talked  on  with  a  wonderful  vivid  manner  and 
an  outpouring  knowledge  of  life,  so  that  I  was 
hugely  interested.  Yet  ever  and  anon  an  allusion  of 
taste  would  betray  him,,  and  at  no  time  did  I  fail 
to  see  that  his  roughness  was  only  a  veneer.  As  it 
turned  out  he  was  better  educated  by  far  than  I,  a 
Yale  boy  taking  a  post-graduate  course  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Hard  Luck. 

My  reserve  once  thawed,  I  told  him  much  of  my 
simple  life.     He  listened,  intently  sympathetic. 

"  Say,"  said  he  earnestly  when  I  had  finished,  "  I'm 
rough-and-ready  in  my  ways.  Life  to  me's  a  game, 
sort  of  masquerade,  and  I'm  the  worst  masquerader 
in  the  bunch.  But  I  know  how  to  handle  myself,  and 
I  can  jolly  my  way  along  pretty  well.  Now,  you're 
green,  if  you'll  excuse  me  saying  it,  and  maybe  I  can 
help  you  some.  Likewise  you're  the  only  one  in  all 
the  gang  of  hoboes  that's  my  kind.  Come  on,  let's  be 
partners." 

I  felt  greatly  drawn  to  him  and  agreed  gladly. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  must  go  and  jolly  along  the 
other  boys.  Aren't  they  a  fierce  bunch?  Coloured 
gentlemen,  Slavonians,  Polaks,  Dagoes,  Swedes — 
well,  I'll  go  prospecting,  and  see  what  I  can  strike." 

He  went  among  them  with  a  jabber  of  strange 
terms,  a  bright  smile  and  ready  banter,  and  I  could 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  17 

see  that  he  was  to  be  a  quick  favourite.  I  envied 
him  for  his  ease  of  manner,  a  thing  I  could  never 
compass.     Presently  he  returned  to  me. 

"  Say,  partner,  got  any  money?  " 

There  was  something  frank  and  compelling  in  his 
manner,  so  that  I  produced  the  few  dollars  I  had  left, 
and  spread  them  before  him. 

"  That's  all  my  wealth,"  I  said  smilingly. 

He  divided  it  into  two  equal  portions  and  returned 
one  to  me.     He  took  a  note  of  the  other,  saying : 

"  All  right,  I'll  settle  up  with  you  later  on." 

He  went  off  with  my  money.  He  seemed  to  take 
it  for  granted  I  would  not  object,  and  on  my  part  I 
cared  little,  being  only  too  eager  to  show  I  trusted 
him.  A  few  minutes  later  behold  him  seated  at  a 
card-table  with  three  rough-necked,  hard-bitten-look- 
ing men.  They  were  playing  poker,  and,  thinks  I: 
"  Here's  good-bye  to  my  money."  It  minded  me 
of  wolves  and  a  lamb.  I  felt  sorry  for  my  new 
friend,  and  I  was  only  glad  he  had  so  little  to 
lose. 

We  were  drawing  in  to  Los  Angeles  when  he  re- 
joined me.  To  my  surprise  he  emptied  his  pockets  of 
wrinkled  notes  and  winking  silver  to  the  tune  of 
twenty  dollars,  and  dividing  it  equally,  handed  half 
to  me. 

"Here,"  says  he,  "plant  that  in  your  dip." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  just  give  me  back  what  you  bor- 
rowed; that's  all  I  want." 

"  Oh,  forget  it !  You  staked  me,  and  it's  well  won. 
These  guinneys  took  me  for  a  jay.     Thought  I  was 


i8  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

easy,  but  I've  forgotten  more  than  they  ever  knew, 
and  I  haven't  forgotten  so  much  either." 

'*  No,  you  keep  It,  please.     I  don't  want  it." 

"Oh,  come!  put  your  Scotch  scruples  in  your 
pocket.     Take  the  money." 

"  No,"  I  said  obstinately. 

'*  Look  here,  this  partnership  of  ours  is  based  on 
financial  equality.  If  you  don't  like  my  gate,  you 
don't  need  to  swing  on  it," 

"  All  right,"  said  I  tartly,  "  I  don't  want  to." 

Then  I  turned  on  my  heel. 


CHAPTER  V 

On  either  side  of  us  were  swift  hills  mottled  with 
green  and  gold,  ahead  a  curdle  of  snow-capped  moun- 
tains, above  a  sky  of  robin's-egg  blue.  The  morn- 
ing was  lyric  and  set  our  hearts  piping  as  we  climbed 
the  canyon.  We  breathed  deeply  of  the  heady  air, 
exclaimed  at  sight  of  a  big  bee  ranch,  shouted  as  a 
mule  team  with  jingling  bells  came  swinging  down  the 
trail.  With  cries  of  delight  we  forded  the  little 
crystal  stream  wherever  the  trail  plunged  knee-deep 
through  it.  Higher  and  higher  we  climbed,  mile 
after  mile,  our  packs  on  our  shoulders,  our  hearts 
very  merry.  I  was  as  happy  as  a  holiday  schoolboy, 
willing  this  should  go  on  for  ever,  dreading  to  think 
of  the  grim-visaged  toil  that  awaited  us. 

About  midday  we  reached  the  end.  Gangs  of  men 
were  everywhere,  ripping  and  tearing  at  the  mountain 
side.  There  was  a  roar  of  blasting,  and  rocks 
hurtled  down  on  us.  Bunkhouses  of  raw  lumber 
sweated  in  the  sun.  Everywhere  was  the  feverish 
activity  of  a  construction  camp. 

We  were  assigned  to  a  particular  bunkhouse,  and 
there  was  a  great  rush  for  places.  It  was  floorless, 
doorless  and  in  part  roofless.  Above  the  medley  of 
voices  I  heard  that  of  the  Prodigal: 

"  Say,  fellows,  let's  find  the  softest  side  of  this 
board !     Strikes  me  the   Company's  mighty   consid- 

19 


20  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

erate.  All  kinds  of  ventilation.  Good  chance  to 
study  astronomy.  Wonder  if  I  couldn't  borrow  a 
mattress  somewhere?  Ha!  Good  eye!  Watch 
me,  fellows ! " 

We  saw  him  make  for  a  tent  nearby  where  horses 
were  stabled.  He  reconnoitred  carefully,  then 
darted  inside  to  come  put  in  a  twinkling,  staggering 
under  a  bale  of  hay. 

"  How's  that  for  rustling?  I  guess  I'm  slow — hey, 
what?     Guess  this  is  poor!  " 

He  was  wadding  his  bunk  with  the  hay,  while  the 
others  looked  on  rather  enviously.  Then,  as  a  bell 
rang,  he  left  off. 

"  Hash  is  ready,  boys;  last  call  to  the  dining-car. 
Come  on  and  see  the  pigs  get  their  heads  in  the 
trough." 

We  hurried  to  the  cookhouse,  where  a  tin  plate,  a 
tin  cup,  a  tin  spoon  and  a  cast-iron  knife  was  laid  for 
each  of  us  at  a  table  of  unplaned  boards.  A  great 
mess  of  hash  was  ready,  and  excepting  myself  every 
one  ate  voraciously.  I  found  something  more  to  my 
taste,  a  can  of  honey  and  some  soda  crackers,  on 
which  I  supped  gratefully. 

When  I  returned  to  the  bunkhouse  I  found  my 
bunk  had  been  stuffed  with  nice  soft  hay,  and  my 
blankets  spread  on  top.  I  looked  over  to  the  Prod- 
igal. He  was  reading,  a  limp  cigarette  between  his 
yellow-stained  fingers.     I  went  up  to  him. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  do  this,"  I 
said. 

"  Oh  no !     Not  at  all.     Don't  mention  it,"  he  an- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  21 

swered  with  much  politeness,  never  raising  his  eyes 
from  the  book. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I've  just  got  to  thank  you.  And 
look  here,  let's  make  it  up.  Don't  let  the  business  of 
that  wretched  money  come  between  us.  Can't  we  be 
friends  anyway?  " 

He  sprang  up  and  gripped  my  hand. 

"  Sure !  nothing  I  want  more.  I'm  sorry.  An- 
other time  I'll  make  allowance  for  that  shorter- 
catechism  conscience  of  yours.  Now  let's  go  over  to 
that  big  fire  they've  made  and  chew  the  rag." 

So  we  sat  by  the  crackling  blaze  of  mesquite,  sage- 
brush and  live-oak  limbs,  while  over  us  twinkled  the 
friendly  stars,  and  he  told  me  many  a  strange  story 
of  his  roving  life. 

*'  You  know,  the  old  man's  all  broke  up  at  me 
playing  the  fool  like  this.  He's  got  a  glue  factory 
back  in  Massachusetts.  Guess  he  stacks  up  about  a 
million  or  so.  Wanted  me  to  go  into  the  glue  fac- 
tory, begin  at  the  bottom,  stay  with  it.  '  Stick  to 
glue,  my  boy,'  he  says;  'become  the  Glue  King,' 
and  so  on.  But  not  with  little  Willie.  Life's  too 
interesting  a  proposition  to  be  turned  down  like  that. 
I'm  not  repentant.  I  know  the  fatted  calf's  waiting 
for  me,  getting  fatter  every  day.  One  of  these  days 
I'll  go  back  and  sample  it." 

It  was  he  I  first  heard  talk  of  the  Great  White 
Land,  and  it  stirred  me  strangely. 

"  Every  one's  crazy  about  it.  They're  rushing 
now  in  thousands,  to  get  there  before  the  winter  be- 
gins.    Next  spring  there  will  be  the  biggest  stampede 


22  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

the  world  has  ever  seen.  Say,  Scotty,  I've  the  great- 
est notion  to  try  it.  Let's  go,  you  and  I.  I  had  a 
partner  once,  who'd  been  up  there.  It's  a  big,  dark, 
grim  land,  but  there's  the  gold,  shining,  shining,  and 
it's  calling  us  to  go.  Somehow  it  haunts  me,  that 
soft,  gleamy,  virgin  gold  there  in  the  solitary  rivers 
with  not  a  soul  to  pick  it  up.  I  don't  care  one  rip 
for  the  value  of  it.  I  can  make  all  I  want  out  of 
glue.  But  the  adventure,  the  excitement,  it's  that 
that  makes  me  fit  for  the  foolish  house." 

He  was  silent  a  long  time  while  my  imagination 
conjured  up  terrible,  fascinating  pictures  of  the  vast, 
unawakened  land,  and  a  longing  came  over  me  to  dare 
its  shadows. 

As  we  said  good-night,  his  last  words  were : 
"  Remember,  Scotty,  we're  both  going  to  join  the 
Big  Stampede,  you  and  I." 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  SLEPT  but  fitfully,  for  the  night  air  was  nipping, 
and  the  bunkhouse  nigh  as  open  as  a  cage.  A  bonny 
morning  it  was,  and  the  sun  warmed  me  nicely,  so 
that  over  breakfast  I  was  in  a  cheerful  humour. 
Afterwards  I  watched  the  gang  labouring,  and 
showed  such  an  injudicious  interest  that  that  after- 
noon I  too  was  put  to  work. 

It  was  very  simple.  Running  into  the  mountain 
there  was  a  tunnel,  which  they  were  lining  with  con- 
crete, and  it  was  the  task  of  I  and  another  to  push 
cars  of  the  stuff  from  the  outlet  to  the  scene  of 
operations.  My  partner  was  a  Swede  who  had  toiled 
from  boyhood,  while  I  had  never  done  a  day's  work 
in  my  life.  It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  lift  the 
loaded  boxes  into  the  car.  Then  we  left  the  sun- 
shine behind  us,  and  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  dark- 
ness we  strained  in  an  uphill  effort. 

From  the  roof,  which  we  stooped  to  avoid,  sheets 
of  water  descended.  Every  now  and  then  the 
heavy  cars  would  run  off  the  rails,  which  were  of 
scantling,  worn  and  frayed  by  friction.  Then  my 
Swede  would  storm  in  Berserker  rage,  and  we  would 
lift  till  the  veins  throbbed  in  my  head.  Never  had 
time  seemed  so  long.  A  convict  working  in  the  salt 
mines  of  Siberia  did  not  revolt  more  against  his  task 
than  I.     The  sweat  blinded  me;  a  bright  steel  pain 

23 


24  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

throbbed  in  my  head;  my  heart  seemed  to  hammer. 
Never  so  thankful  was  I  as  when  we  had  made  our 
last  trip,  and  sick  and  dizzy  I  put  on  my  coat  to  go 
home. 

It  was  dark.  There  was  a  cable  line  running  from 
the  tunnel  to  the  camp,  and  down  this  we  shot  in 
buckets  two  at  a  clip.  The  descent  gave  me  a  creepy 
sensation,  but  it  saved  a  ten  minutes'  climb  down  the 
mountain  side,  and  I  was  grateful. 

Tired,  wet  and  dirty,  how  I  envied  the  Prodigal 
lying  warm  and  cosy  on  his  fragrant  hay.  He  was 
reading  a  novel.  But  the  thought  that  I  had  earned 
a  dollar  comforted  me.  After  supper  he,  with  Ginger 
and  Dutchy,  played  solo  till  near  midnight,  while  I 
tossed  on  my  bunk  too  weary  and  sore  to  sleep. 

Next  day  was  a  repetition  of  the  first,  only  worse. 
I  ached  as  If  I  had  been  beaten.  Stiff  and  sore  I 
dragged  myself  to  the  tunnel  again.  I  lifted, 
strained,  tugged  and  shoved  with  a  set  and  tragic 
face.  Five  hours  of  hell  passed.  It  was  noon.  I 
nursed  my  strength  for  the  after  effort.  Angrily  I 
talked  to  myself,  and  once  more  I  pulled  through. 
Weary  and  slimy  with  wet  mud,  I  shot  down  the 
cable  line.  Snugly  settled  In  his  bunk,  the  Prodigal 
had  read  another  two  hundred  pages  of  "  Les  Mi- 
serables."  Yet — I  reflected  somewhat  sadly — I  had 
made  two  dollars. 

On  the  third  day  sheer  obstinacy  forced  me  to  the 
tunnel.  My  self-respect  goaded  me  on.  I  would 
not  give  In.  I  must  hold  this  job  down,  I  must,  I 
MUST.     Then  at  the  noon  hour  I  fainted. 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  25 

No  one  saw  me,  so  I  gritted  my  teeth  and  once 
more  threw  my  weight  against  the  cars.  Once  more 
night  found  me  waiting  to  descend  in  the  bucket. 
Then  as  I  stood  there  was  a  crash  and  shouts  from 
below.  The  cable  had  snapped.  My  Swede  and 
another  lay  among  the  rocks  with  sorely  broken 
bones.  Poor  beggars !  how  they  must  have  suffered 
jolting  down  that  boulder-strewn  trail  to  the  hospital. 

Somehow  that  destroyed  my  nerve.  I  blamed  my- 
self indeed.  I  flogged  myself  with  reproaches,  but 
it  was  of  no  avail.  I  would  sooner  beg  my  bread 
than  face  that  tunnel  once  again.  The  world  seemed 
to  be  divided  into  two  parts,  the  rest  of  it  and  that 
tunnel.  Thank  God,  I  didn't  have  to  go  into  it  again. 
I  was  exultantly  happy  that  I  didr\'t.  The  Prodigal 
had  finished  his  book,  and  was  starting  another. 
That  night  he  borrowed  some  of  my  money  to  play 
solo  with. 

Next  day  I  saw  the  foreman.     I  said : 

"  I  want  to  go.  The  work  up  there's  too  hard  for 
me." 

He  looked  at  me  kindly. 

"All  right,  sonny,"  says  he,  "  don't  quit.  Fll  put 
you  in  the  gravel  pit." 

So  next  day  I  found  a  more  congenial  task.  There 
were  four  of  us.  We  threw  the  gravel  against  a 
screen  where  the  finer  stuff  that  sifted  through  was 
used  in  making  concrete. 

The  work  was  heartbreaking  in  its  monotony.  In 
the  biting  cold  of  the  morning  we  made  a  start,  long 
before  the  sun  peeped  above  the  wall  of  mountain. 


26  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

We  watched  it  crawl,  snail-like,  over  the  virgin  sky. 
We  panted  in  its  heat.  We  saw  it  drop  again  behind 
the  mountain  wall,  leaving  the  sky  gorgeously  barred 
with  colour  from  a  tawny  orange  glow  to  an  ice-pale 
green — a  regular  poiisse  cafe  of  a  sunset.  Then 
when  the  cold  and  the  dark  surged  back,  by  the  light 
of  the  evening  star  we  straightened  our  weary  spines, 
and  throwing  aside  pick  and  shovel  hurried  to  supper. 

Heigh-ho!  what  a  life  it  was.  Resting,  eating, 
sleeping;  negative  pleasures  became  positive  ones. 
Life's  great  principle  of  compensation  worked  on  our 
behalf,  and  to  lie  at  ease,  reading  an  old  paper, 
seemed  an  exquisite  enjoyment. 

I  was  much  troubled  about  the  Prodigal.  He 
complained  of  muscular  rheumatism,  and  except  to 
crawl  to  meals  was  unable  to  leave  his  bunk.  Every 
day  came  the  foreman  to  inquire  anxiously  if  he  was 
fit  to  go  to  work,  but  steadily  he  grew  worse.  Yet 
he  bore  his  suffering  with  great  spirit,  and,  among 
that  nondescript  crew,  he  was  a  thing  of  joy  and 
brightness,  a  link  with  that  other  world  which  was 
mine  own.  They  nicknamed  him  "  Happy,"  his 
cheerfulness  was  so  invincible.  He  played  cards  on 
every  chance,  and  he  must  have  been  unlucky,  for  he 
borrowed  the  last  of  my  small  hoard. 

One  morning  I  woke  about  six,  and  found,  pinned 
to  my  blanket,  a  note  from  my  friend. 

"  Dear  Scotty: 

"  I  grieve  to  leave  you  thus,  but  the  cruel  foreman  In- 
sists on  me  working  off  my  ten  days'  board.     Racked  with 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  27 

pain  as  I  am,  there  appears  to  be  no  alternative  but  flight. 
Accordingly  I  fade  away  once  more  into  the  unknown. 
Will  write  you  general  delivery,  Los  Angeles.  Good  luck 
and  good-bye.     Yours  to  a  cinder, 

"  Happy." 


There  was  a  hue  and  cry  after  him,  but  he  was 
gone,  and  a  sudden  disgust  for  the  place  came  over 
me.  For  two  more  days  I  worked,  crushed  by  a 
gloom  that  momently  intensified.  Clamant  and  im- 
perative in  me  was  the  voice  of  change.  I  could 
not  become  toil-broken,  so  I  saw  the  foreman. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go?"  he  asked  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  work's  too  monotonous." 

"Monotonous!  Well,  that's  the  rummest  rea- 
son I  ever  heard  a  man  give  for  quitting.  But  every 
man  knows  his  own  business  best.  I'll  give  you  a 
time-cheque." 

While  he  was  making  it  out  I  wondered  if,  indeed, 
I  did  know  my  own  business  best;  but  if  it  had  been 
the  greatest  folly  in  the  world,  I  was  bound  to  get  out 
o^  that  canyon. 

Treasuring  the  slip  of  paper  representing  my  la- 
bour, I  sought  one  of  the  bosses,  a  sour,  stiff  man  of 
dyspeptic  tendencies.  With  a  smile  of  malicious 
sweetness  he  returned  it  to  me. 

"  All  right,  take  it  to  our  Oakland  office,  and  you'll 
get  the  cash." 

Expectantly  I  had  been  standing  there,  thinking  to 
receive  my  money,  the  first  I  had  ever  earned  (and  to 


28  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

me  so  distressfully  earned,  at  that).  Now  I  gazed 
at  him  very  sick  at  heart:  for  was  not  Oakland  sev- 
eral hundred  miles  away,  and  I  was  penniless. 

"  Couldn't  you  cash  it  here?"  I  faltered  at  last. 

"  No!  "  (very  sourly). 

"  Couldn't  you  discount  it,  then?  " 

"  No!"   (still  more  tartly). 

I  turned  away,  crestfallen  and  smarting.  When  I 
told  the  other  boys  they  were  indignant,  and  a  good 
deal  alarmed  on  their  own  account.  I  made  my  case 
against  the  Company  as  damning  as  I  could,  then, 
slinging  my  blankets  on  my  back,  set  off  once  more 
down  the  canyon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  WAS  gaining  in  experience,  and  as  I  hurried  down 
the  canyon  and  the  morning  burgeoned  like  a  rose,  my 
spirits  mounted  invincibly.  It  was  the  joy  of  the 
open  road  and  the  care-free  heart.  Like  some 
hideous  nightmare  was  the  memory  of  the  tunnel  and 
the  gravel  pit.  The  bright  blood  in  me  rejoiced;  my 
muscles  tensed  with  pride  in  their  toughness;  I  gazed 
insolently  at  the  world. 

So,  as  I  made  speed  to  get  the  sooner  to  the  orange 
groves,  I  almost  set  heel  on  a  large  blue  envelope 
which  lay  face  up  on  the  trail.  I  examined  it  and, 
finding  it  contained  plans  and  specifications  of  the 
work  we  had  been  at,  I  put  it  in  my  pocket. 

Presently  came  a  rider,  who  reined  up  by  me. 

"  Say,  young  man,  you  haven't  seen  a  blue  en- 
velope, have  you?  " 

Something  in  the  man's  manner  aroused  in  me  in- 
stant resentment.  I  was  the  toiler  in  mud-stiffened 
overalls,  he  arrogant  and  supercilious  in  broadcloth 
and  linen. 

"  No,"  I  said  sourly,  and,  going  on  my  way,  heard 
him  clattering  up  the  canyon. 

It  was  about  evening  when  I  came  onto  a  fine 
large  plain.  Behind  me  was  the  canyon,  gloomy  like 
the  lair  of  some  evil  beast,  while  before  me  the  sun 
was  setting,  and  made  the  valley  like  a  sea  of  golden 

29 


30  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

glaze.  I  stood,  knight-errant-wise,  on  the  verge  of 
one  of  those  enchanted  lands  of  precious  memory, 
seeking  the  princess  of  my  dreams;  but  all  I  saw  was 
a  man  coming  up  the  trail.  He  was  reeling  home- 
ward, with  under  one  arm  a  live  turkey,  and  swinging 
from  the  other  a  demijohn  of  claret. 

He  would  have  me  drink.  He  represented  the 
Christmas  spirit,  and  his  accent  was  Scotch,  so  I  up- 
tilted  his  demijohn  gladly  enough.  Then,  for  he  was 
very  merry,  he  would  have  it  that  we  sing  "  Auld 
Lang  Syne."  So  there,  on  the  heath,  in  the  golden 
dance  of  the  light,  we  linked  our  hands  and  lifted 
our  voices  like  two  daft  folk.  Yet,  for  that  it  was 
Christmas  Eve,  It  seemed  not  to  be  so  mad  after  all. 

There  was  my  first  orange  grove.  I  ran  to  it 
eagerly,  and  pulled  four  of  the  largest  fruit  I  could 
see.  They  were  green-like  of  rind  and  bitter  sour, 
but  I  heeded  not,  eating  the  last  before  I  was  satis- 
fied.    Then  I  went  on  my  way. 

As  I  entered  the  town  my  spirits  fell.  I  remem- 
bered I  was  quite  without  money  and  had  not  yet 
learned  to  be  gracefully  penniless.  However,  I  be- 
thought me  of  the  time-cheque,  and  entering  a  saloon 
asked  the  proprietor  if  he  would  cash  It.  He  was  a 
German  of  jovial  face  that  seemed  to  say:  "Wel- 
come, my  friend,"  and  cold,  beady  eyes  that  queried : 
"How  much  can  I  get  of  your  wad?  "  It  was  his 
eyes  I  noticed. 

"  No,  I  don'd  touch  dot.  I  haf  before  been 
schvindled.     Himmel,  no  1     You  take  him  avay." 

I  sank  Into  a  chair.     Catching  a  glimpse  of  my 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  31 

face  in  a  bar  mirror,  I  wondered  if  that  hollow- 
cheeked,  weary-looking  lad  was  I.  The  place  was 
crowded  with  revellers  of  the  Christmastide,  and 
geese  were  being  diced  for.  There  were  three  that 
pattered  over  the  floor,  while  in  the  corner  the  stage- 
driver  and  a  red-haired  man  were  playing  freeze-out 
for  one  of  them. 

I  drowsed  quietly.  Wafts  of  bar-front  conversa- 
tion came  to  me.  "  Envelope  .  .  .  lost  plans  .  .  . 
great  delay."  Suddenly  I  sat  up,  remembering  the 
package  I  had  found. 

"Were  you  looking  for  some  lost  plans?"  I 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  one  man  eagerly,  "  did  you  find 
them?" 

"  I  didn't  say  I  did,  but  if  I  could  get  them  for 
you,  would  you  cash  this  time-cheque  for  me?  " 

"Sure,"  he  says,  "one  good  turn  deserves  another.. 
Deliver  the  goods  and  I'll  cash  your  time-cheque." 

His  face  was  frank  and  jovial.  I  drew  out  the  en- 
velope and  handed  it  over.  He  hurriedly  ran 
through  the  contents  and  saw  that  all  were 
there. 

"  Hal  That  saves  a  trip  to  'Frisco,"  he  said,  gay 
with  relief. 

He  turned  to  the  bar  and  ordered  a  round  of 
drinks.  They  all  had  a  drink  on  him,  while  he 
seemed  to  forget  about  me.  I  waited  a  little,  then 
pressed  forward  with  my  time-cheque. 

"  Oh  that,"  said  he,  "  I  won't  cash  that.  I  was 
only  joshing." 


32  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

A  feeling  of  bitter  anger  welled  up  within  me.  I 
trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"  You  won't  go  back  on  your  word?  "  I  said. 

He  became  flustered. 

"  Well,  I  can't  do  It  anyway.  I've  got  no  loose 
cash." 

What  I  would  have  said  or  done  I  know  not,  for  I 
was  nigh  desperate;  but  at  this  moment  the  stage- 
driver,  flushed  with  his  victory  at  freeze-out,  snatched 
the  paper  from  my  hand. 

"  Here,  I'll  discount  that  for  you.  I'll  only  give 
you  five  dollars  for  It,  though." 

It  called  for  fourteen,  but  by  this  time  I  was  so 
discouraged  I  gladly  accepted  the  five-dollar  gold- 
piece  he  held  out  to  tempt  me. 

Thus  were  my  fortunes  restored.  It  was  near 
midnight  and  I  asked  the  German  for  a  room.  He 
replied  that  he  was  full  up,  but  as  I  had  my  blankets 
there  was  a  nice  dry  shed  at  the  back.  Alas !  It  was 
also  used  by  his  chickens.  They  roosted  just  over  my 
head,  and  I  lay  on  the  filthy  floor  at  the  mercy  of  in- 
numerable fleas.  To  complete  my  misery  the  green 
oranges  I  had  eaten  gave  me  agonizing  cramps. 
Glad,  Indeed,  was  I  when  day  dawned,  and  once  more 
I  got  afoot,  with  my  face  turned  towards  Los  Angeles. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Los  Angeles  will  always  be  written  in  golden  letters 
in  the  archives  of  my  memory.  Crawling,  sore  and 
sullen,  from  the  clutch  of  toil,  I  revelled  in  a  lotus  life 
of  ease  and  idleness.  There  was  infinite  sunshine, 
and  the  quiet  of  a  public  library  through  whose  open 
windows  came  the  fragrance  of  magnolias.  Living 
was  incredibly  cheap.  For  seventy-five  cents  a  week 
I  had  a  little  sunlit  attic,  and  for  ten  cents  I  could  dine 
abundantly.  There  was  soup,  fish,  meat,  vegetables, 
salad,  pudding  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  So  reading, 
dreaming  and  roaming  the  streets,  I  spent  my  days  in 
a  state  of  beatitude. 

But  even  five  dollars  will  not  last  for  ever,  and  the 
time  came  when  once  more  the  grim  face  of  toil  con- 
fronted me.  I  must  own  that  I  had  now  little 
stomach  for  hard  labour,  yet  I  made  several  efforts 
to  obtain  it.  However,  I  had  a  bad  manner,  being 
both  proud  and  shy,  and  one  rebuff  in  a  day  always 
was  enough.  I  lacked  that  self-confidence  that  read- 
ily finds  employment,  and  again  I  found  myself  mix- 
ing with  the  spineless  residuum  of  the  employment 
bureau. 

At  last  the  morning  came  when  twenty-five 
cents  was  all  that  remained  to  me  in  the  world.  I 
had  just  been  seeking  a  position  as  a  dish-washer, 
and  had  been  rather  sourly  rejected.  Sitting  solitary 
on  the  bench  in  that  dreary  place,  I  soliloquized; 

33 


34  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"  And  so  it  has  come  to  this,  that  I,  Athol  Mel- 
drum,  of  gentle  birth  and  Highland  breeding,  must 
sue  in  vain  to  understudy  a  scullion  In  a  third-rate 
hash  joint.  I  am,  Indeed,  fallen.  What  mad  folly 
is  this  that  sets  me  lower  than  a  menial?  Here  I 
might  be  snug  in  the  Northwest  raising  my  own  fat 
sheep.  A  letter  home  would  bring  me  instant  help. 
Yet  what  would  It  mean  ?  To  own  defeat ;  to  lose  my 
self-esteem;  to  call  myself  a  failure.  No,  I  won't. 
Come  what  may,  I  will  play  the  game." 

At  that  moment  the  clerk  wrote : — 


(< 


Man  Wanted  to  Carry  Banner." 


"How  much  do  you  want  for  that  job?"  I 
asked. 

"  Oh,  two  bits  will  hold  you,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"  Any  experience  required?  "  I  asked  again. 

*'  No,  I  guess  even  you'll  do  for  that,"  he  answered 
cuttingly. 

So  I  parted  with  my  last  quarter  and  was  sent  to  a 
Sheeny  store  in  Broadway.  Here  I  was  given  a 
vociferous  banner  announcing: 

"  Great  retiring  sale,"  and  so  forth. 

With  this  hoisted  I  sallied  forth,  at  first  very  con- 
scious and  not  a  little  ashamed.  Yet  by  and  by  this 
feeling  wore  off,  and  I  wandered  up  and  down  with 
no  sense  of  my  employment,  which,  after  all,  was  one 
adapted  to  philosophic  thought.  I  might  have  gone 
through  the  day  in  this  blissful  coma  of  indifference 
had  not  a  casual  glance  at  my  banner  thrilled  me  with 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  35 

horror.     There  It  was  In  hideous,  naked  letters  of 
red: 

''  Retireing  Sale  J' 

I  reeled  under  the  shock.  I  did  not  mind  packing 
a  banner,  but  a  misspelt  one  .  .   . 

I  hurried  back  to  the  store,  resolved  to  throw  up 
my  position.  Luckily  the  day  was  well  advanced, 
and  as  I  had  served  my  purpose  I  was  given  a  silver 
dollar. 

On  this  dollar  I  lived  for  a  month.  Not  every  one 
has  done  that,  yet  It  Is  easy  to  do.  This  is  how  I 
managed. 

In  the  first  place  I  told  the  old  lady  who  rented  me 
my  room  that  I  could  not  pay  her  until  I  got  work, 
and  I  gave  her  my  blankets  as  security.  There  re- 
mained only  the  problem  of  food.  This  I  solved  by 
buying  every  day  or  so  five  cents'  worth  of  stale  bread, 
which  I  ate  In  my  room,  washing  it  down  with  pure 
spring  water.  A  little  imagination  and  lo  !  my  bread 
was  beef,  my  water  wine.  Thus  breakfast  and  din- 
ner. For  supper  there  was  the  Pacific  Gospel  Hall, 
where  we  gathered  nightly  one  hundred  strong, 
bawled  hymns,  listened  to  sundry  good  people  and 
presently  were  given  mugs  of  coffee  and  chunks  of 
bread.  How  good  the  fragrant  coffee  tasted  and 
how  sweet  the  fresh  bread ! 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  I  got  work  as  an 
orange-picker.  It  was  a  matter  of  swinging  long 
ladders  into  fruit-flaunting  trees,  of  sunshiny  days  and 
fluttering  leaves,  of  golden  branches  plundered,  and 


36  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

boxes  filled  from  sagging  sacks.  There  is  no  more 
ideal  occupation.  I  revelled  in  it.  The  others  were 
Mexicans;  I  was  "  El  Gringo."  But  on  an  average  I 
only  made  fifty  cents  a  day.  On  one  day,  when  the 
fruit  was  unusually  large,  I  made  seventy  cents. 

Possibly  I  would  have  gone  on,  contentedly  enough, 
perched  on  a  ladder,  high  up  in  the  sunlit  sway  of 
treetops,  had  not  the  work  come  to  an  end.  I  had 
been  something  of  a  financier  on  a  picayune  scale, 
and  when  I  counted  my  savings  and  found  that  I  had 
four  hundred  and  ninety-five  cents,  such  a  feeling  of 
affluence  came  over  me  that  I  resolved  to  gratify  my 
taste  for  travel.  Accordmgly  I  purchased  a  ticket  for 
San  Diego,  and  once  more  found  myself  southward 
bound. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  FEW  days  in  San  Diego  reduced  my  small  cap- 
ital to  the  vanishing  point,  yet  it  was  with  a  light 
heart  I  turned  north  again  and  took  the  All-Tie 
route  for  Los  Angeles.  If  one  of  the  alluring  con- 
ditions of  a  walking  tour  is  not  to  be  overburdened 
with  cash  surely  I  fulfilled  it,  for  I  was  absolutely 
penniless.  The  Lord  looks  after  his  children,  said  I, 
and  when  I  became  too  inexorably  hungry  I  asked  for 
bread,  emphasising  my  willingness  to  do  a  stunt  on 
the  woodpile.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  was  young 
and  notably  a  novice  in  vagrancy,  but  people  were 
very  good  to  me. 

The  railway  track  skirts  the  ocean  side  for  many  a 
sonorous  league.  The  mile-long  waves  roll  in 
majestically,  as  straight  as  if  drawn  with  a  ruler,  and 
crash  in  thunder  on  the  sandy  beach.  There  were 
glorious  sunsets  and  weird  storms,  with  underhanded 
lightning  stabs  at  the  sky.  I  built  little  huts  of  dis- 
carded railway  ties,  and  lit  camp-fires,  for  I  was  fear- 
ful of  the  crawling  things  I  saw  by  day.  The  coyote 
called  from  the  hills.  Uneasy  rustlings  came  from 
the  sage-brush.  My  teeth,  a-chatter  with  cold,  kept 
me  awake,  till  I  cinched  a  handkerchief  around  my 
chin.  Yet,  drenched  with  night-dews,  half-starved 
and  travel-worn,  I  seemed  to  grow  every  day  stronger 
and  more  fit.  Between  bondage  and  vagabondage  I 
did  not  hesitate  to  choose. 

37 


38  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

Leaving  the  sea,  I  came  to  a  country  of  grass  and 
she-oaks  very  pretty  to  see,  like  an  English  park.  I 
passed  horrible  tiile  swamps,  and  reached  a  cattle 
land  with  corrals  and  solitary  cowboys.  There  was 
a  quaint  old  Spanish  Mission  that  lingers  in  my 
memory,  then  once  again  I  came  into  the  land  of  the 
orange-groves  and  the  irrigating  ditch.  Here  I  fell 
in  with  two  of  the  hobo  fraternity,  and  we  walked 
many  miles  together.  One  night  we  slept  In  a 
refrigerator  car,  where  I  felt  as  if  icicles  were  form- 
ing on  my  spine.  But  walking  was  not  much  in  their 
line,  so  next  morning  they  jumped  a  train  and  we  sep- 
arated. I  was  very  thankful,  as  they  did  not  look 
over-clean,  and  I  had  a  wholesome  horror  of  "  seam- 
squirrels." 

On  arriving  in  Los  Angeles  I  went  to  the  Post 
Office.  There  was  a  letter  from  the  Prodigal  dated 
New  York,  and  inclosing  fourteen  dollars,  the  amount 
he  owed  me.     He  said: 

"  I  returned  to  the  paternal  roof,  weary  of  my  role.  The 
fatted  calf  awaited  me.  Nevertheless,  I  am  sick  again  for 
the  unhallowed  swine-husks.  Meet  me  in  'Frisco  about  the 
end  of  February,  and.  I  will  a  glorious  proposition  unfold. 
Don't  fail.  I  must  have  a  partner  and  I  want  you.  Look 
for  a  letter  in  the  General  Delivery." 

There  was  no  time  to  lose,  as  February  was  nearly 
over.  I  took  a  steerage  passage  to  San  Francisco, 
resolving  that  I  would  mend  my  fortunes.  It  is  so 
easy  to  drift.  I  was  already  in  the  social  slough,  a 
hobo  and  an  outcast.     I  sav/  that  as  long  as  I  re- 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  39 

mained  friendless  and  unknown  nothing  but  degraded 
toil  was  open  to  me.  Surely  I  could  climb  up,  but 
was  it  worth  while  ?  A  snug  farm  in  the  Northwest 
awaited  me.  I  would  work  my  way  back  there,  and 
arrive  decently  clad.  Then  none  would  know  of  my 
humiliation.  I  had  been  wayward  and  foolish,  but  I 
had  learned  something. 

The  men  who  toiled,  endured  and  suffered  were 
kind  and  helpful,  their  masters  mean  and  rapacious. 
Everywhere  was  the  same  sordid  grasping  for  the 
dollar.  With  my  ideals  and  training  nothing  but 
discouragement  and  defeat  would  be  my  portion. 
Oh,  it  is  so  easy  to  drift ! 

I  was  sick  of  the  whole  business. 


CHAPTER  X 

What  with  steamer  fare  and  a  few  small  debts  to 
settle,  I  found  when  I  landed  in  San  Francisco  that 
once  more  I  was  flatly  broke.  I  was  arrestively  seedy, 
literally  on  my  uppers,  for  owing  to  my  long  tramp 
my  boots  were  barely  holding  together.  There  was 
no  letter  for  me,  and  perhaps  it  was  on  account  of  my 
disappointment,  perhaps  on  account  of  my  extreme 
shabbiness,  but  I  found  I  had  quite  lost  heart.  Look- 
ing as  I  did,  I  would  not  ask  any  one  for  work.  So 
I  tightened  my  belt  and  sat  in  Portsmouth  Square, 
cursing  myself  for  the  many  nickels  I  had  squandered 
in  riotous  living. 

Two  days  later  I  was  still  drawing  In  my  belt. 
All  I  had  eaten  was  one  meal,  which  I  had  earned 
by  peeling  half  a  sack  of  potatoes  for  a  restaurant.  I 
slept  beneath  the  floor  of  an  empty  house  out  the 
Presidio  way. 

On  this  day  I  was  drowsing  on  my  bench  when 
some  one  addressed  me. 

"  Say,  young  fellow,  you  look  pretty  well  used 
up. 

I  saw  an  elderly,  grey-haired  man. 

"Oh  no!"  I  said,  "I'm  not.  That's  just  my 
acting.  I'm  a  millionaire  in  disguise,  studying  so- 
ciology." 

He  came  and  sat  by  me. 

40 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  41 

"  Come,  buck  up,  kid,  you're  pretty  near  down  and 
out.     I've  been  studyin'  you  them  two  days." 

"  Two  days,"  I  echoed  drearily.  "  It  seems  Hke 
two  years."     Then,  with  sudden  fierceness : 

"  Sir,  I  am  a  stranger  to  you.  Never  in  my  life 
before  have  I  tried  to  borrow  money.  It  is  asking 
a  great  deal  of  you  to  trust  me,  but  it  will  be  a 
most  Christian  act.  I  am  starving.  If  you  have 
ten  cents  that  isn't  working  lend  it  to  me  for  the 
love  of  God.  I'll  pay  you  back  if  it  takes  me  ten 
years." 

"All  right,  son,"  he  said  cheerfully;  "let's  go  and 
feed." 

He  took  me  to  a  restaurant  where  he  ordered  a 
dinner  that  made  my  head  swim.  I  felt  near  to 
fainting,  but  after  I  had  had  some  brandy,  I  was  able 
to  go  on  with  the  business  of  eating.  By  the  time  I 
got  to  the  coffee  I  was  as  much  excited  by  the  food 
as  if  I  had  been  drinking  wine.  I  now  took  an  oppor- 
tunity to  regard  my  benefactor. 

He  was  rather  under  medium  height,  but  so  square 
and  solid  you  felt  he  was  a  man  to  be  reckoned  with. 
His  skin  was  as  brown  as  an  Indian's,  his  eyes  light- 
blue  and  brightly  cheerful,  as  from  some  Inner  light. 
His  mouth  was  firm  and  his  chin  resolute.  Alto- 
gether his  face  was  a  curious  blend  of  benevolence 
and  ruthless  determination. 

Now  he  was  regarding  me  in  a  manner  entirely 
benevolent. 

"  Feel  better,  son?  Well,  go  ahead  an'  tell  me  as 
much  of  your  story  as  you  want  to." 


42  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

I  gave  an  account  of  all  that  had  happened  to  me 
since  I  had  set  foot  on  the  new  land. 

"Huh!"  he  ejaculated  when  I  had  finished. 
"  That's  the  worst  of  your  old-country  boys.  You 
haven't  got  the  get-up  an'  nerve  to  rustle  a  job.  You 
go  to  a  boss  an'  tell  him :  '  You've  no  experience,  but 
you'll  do  your  best.'  An  American  boy  says:  '  I  can 
do  anything.  Give  me  the  job  an'  I'll  just  show 
you.'  Who's  goln'  to  be  hired?  Well,  I  think  I  can 
get  you  a  job  helpin'  a  gardener  out  Alameda  way." 

I  expressed  my  gratitude. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said;  "I'm  glad  by  the 
grace  of  God  I've  been  the  means  of  givin'  you  a 
hand-up.  Better  come  to  my  room  an'  stop  with 
me  tin  somethin'  turns  up.  I'm  goln'  North  In  three 
days." 

I  asked  If  he  was  going  to  the  Yukon. 

"Yes,  I'm  goln'  to  join  this  crazy  rush  to  the 
Klondike.  I've  been  minin'  for  twenty  years,  Ari- 
zona, Colorado,  all  over,  an'  now  I  am  a-goln'  to  see 
if  the  North  hasn't  got  a  stake  for  me." 

Up  In  his  room  he  told  me  of  his  life. 

"  I'm  saved  by  the  grace  of  God,  but  I've  been  a 
Bad  Man.  I've  been  everything  from  a  city  marshal 
to  boss  gambler.  I  have  gone  heeled  for  two  years, 
thinking  to  get  my  pass  to  Hell  at  any  moment." 

"  Ever  killed  any  one?  "  I  queried. 

He  was  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Glory  to  God,  I  haven't,  but  I've  shot.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  time  when  I  could  draw  a  gun  an' 
drive  a  nail  in  the  wall.     I  was  quick,  but  there  was 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  43 

lots  that  could  give  me  cards  and  spades.  Quiet  men, 
too,  you  would  never  think  it  of  'em.  The  quiet 
ones  was  the  worst.  Meek,  friendly,  decent  men,  to 
see  them  drinkin'  at  a  bar,  but  they  didn't  know  Fear, 
an'  every  one  of  'em  had  a  dozen  notches  on  his  gun. 
I  know  lots  of  them,  chummed  with  them,  an'  princes 
they  were,  the  finest  in  the  land,  would  give  the  shirts 
off  their  backs  for  a  friend.  You'd  like  them — but 
Lord  be  praised,  I'm  a  saved  man." 

I  was  deeply  interested. 

"  I  know  I'm  talking  as  I  shouldn't.  It's  all  over 
now,  an'  I've  seen  the  evil  of  my  ways,  but  I've  got 
to  talk  once  in  a  while.  I'm  Jim  Hubbard,  known 
as  '  Salvation  Jim,'  an'  I  know  minin'  from  Genesis 
to  Revelation.  Once  I  used  to  gamble  an'  drink  the 
limit.  One  morning  I  got  up  from  the  card-table 
after  sitting  there  thirty-six  hours.  I'd  lost  five 
thousand  dollars.  I  knew  they'd  handed  me  out 
'  cold  turkey,'  but  I  took  my  medicine. 

"  Right  then  I  said  I'd  be  a  crook  too.  I  learned 
to  play  with  marked  cards.  I  could  tell  every  card  in 
the  deck.  I  ran  a  stud-poker  game,  with  a  Jap  an' 
a  Chinaman  for  partners.  They  were  quicker  than 
white  men,  an'  less  likely  to  lose  their  nerve.  It  was 
easy  money,  like  taking  candy  from  a  kid.  Often  I 
would  play  on  the  square.  No  man  can  bluff  strong 
without  showing  it.  Maybe  it's  just  a  quiver  of  the 
eyelash,  maybe  a  shuffle  of  the  foot.  I've  studied  a 
man  for  a  month  till  I  found  the  sign  that  gave  him 
away.  Then  I've  raised  an'  raised  him  till  the  sweat 
pricked  through   his  brow.     He  was  my  meat.     I 


44  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

went  after  the  men  that  robbed  me,  an'  I  went  one 
better.     Here,  shuffle  this  deck." 

He  produced  a  pack  of  cards  from  a  drawer. 

"  I'll  never  go  back  to  the  old  trade.  I'm  saved. 
I  trust  in  God,  but  just  for  diversion  I  keep  my  hand 
in." 

Talking  to  me,  he  shuffled  the  pack  a  few  times. 

"  Here,  I'm  dealing;  what  do  you  want?  Three 
kings?" 

I  nodded. 

He  dealt  four  hands.  In  mine  there  were  three 
kings. 

Taking  up  another  he  showed  me  three  aces. 

"  I'm  out  of  practice,"  he  said  apologetically. 
"  My  hands  are  calloused.  I  used  to  keep  them  as 
soft  as  velvet." 

He  showed  me  some  false  shuffles,  dealing  from' 
under  the  deck,  and  other  tricks. 

"  Yes,  I  got  even  with  the  ones  that  got  my  money. 
It  was  eat  or  be  eaten.  I  went  after  the  suckers. 
There  was  never  a  man  did  me  dirt  but  I  paid  him 
with  Interest.  Of  course,  it's  different  now.  The 
Good  Book  says :  '  Do  good  unto  them  that  harm 
you.'  I  guess  I  would,  but  I  wouldn't  recommend 
no  one  to  try  and  harm  me.      I  might  forget." 

The  heavy,  aggressive  jaw  shot  forward;  the  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  fearless  ferocity,  and  for  a  moment 
the  man  took  on  an  air  that  was  almost  tigerish.  I 
could  scarce  believe  my  sight ;  yet  the  next  Instant  it 
was  the  same  cheerful,  benevolent  face,  and  I  thought 
my  eyes  must  have  played  me  some  trick. 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  45 

Perhaps  it  was  that  sedate  Puritan  strain  in  me  that 
appealed  to  him,  but  we  became  great  friends.  We 
talked  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  I  loved  to  get 
him  to  tell  of  his  early  life.  It  was  just  like  a  story: 
thrown  on  the  world  while  yet  a  child;  a  shoeblack  in 
New  York,  fighting  for  his  stand;  a  lumber-jack  in 
the  woods  of  Michigan;  lastly  a  miner  in  Arizona. 
He  told  me  of  long  months  on  the  desert  with  only 
his  pipe  for  company,  talking  to  himself  over  the  fire 
at  night,  and  trying  not  to  go  crazy.  He  told  me  of 
the  girl  he  married  and  worshipped,  and  of  the  man 
who  broke  up  his  home.  Once  more  I  saw  that  flit- 
ting tiger-look  appear  on  his  face  and  vanish  im- 
mediately.    He  told  me  of  his  wild  days. 

"  I  was  always  a  fighter,  an'  I  never  knew  what 
fear  meant.  I  never  saw  the  man  that  could  beat 
me  in  a  rough-an'-tumble  scrap.  I  was  uncommon 
husky  an'  as  quick  as  a  cat,  but  it  was  my  fierceness 
that  won  out  for  me.  Get  a  man  down  an'  give  him 
the  leather.  I've  kicked  a  man's  face  to  a  jelly.  It 
was  kick,  bite  an'  gouge  in  them  days — anything 
went. 

"  Yes,  I  never  knew  fear.  I've  gone  up  unarmed 
to  a  man  I  knew  was  heeled  to  shoot  me  on  sight,  an' 
I've  dared  him  to  do  It.  Just  by  the  power  of  the 
eye  I've  made  him  take  water.  He  thought  I  had 
a  gun  an'  could  draw  quicker'n  him.  Then,  as  the 
drink  got  hold  of  me,  I  got  worse  and  worse.  Time 
was  when  I  would  have  robbed  a  bank  an'  shot  the 
man  that  tried  to  stop  me.  Glory  to  God !  I've  seen 
the  evil  of  my  ways." 


46  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"Are  you  sure  you'll  never  backslide?  "  I  asked. 

"  Never!  I'm  born  again.  I  don't  smoke,  drink 
or  gamble,  an'  I'm  as  happy  as  the  day's  long.  There 
was  the  drink.  I  would  go  on  the  water-wagon  for 
three  months  at  a  stretch,  but  day  and  night,  wherever 
I  went,  the  glass  of  whisky  was  there  right  between 
my  eyes.  Sooner  or  later  it  got  the  better  of  me. 
Then  one  night  I  went  half-sober  into  a  Gospel  Hall. 
The  glass  was  there,  an'  I  was  in  agony  tryin'  to 
resist  it.  The  speaker  was  callin'  sinners  to  come 
forward.  I  thought  I'd  try  the  thing  anyway,  so  I 
went  to  the  penitents'  bench.  When  I  got  up  the 
glass  was  gone.  Of  course  it  came  back,  but  I  got 
rid  of  it  again  in  the  same  way.  Well,  I  had  many 
a  struggle  an'  many  a  defeat,  but  in  the  end  I  won. 
It's  a  divine  miracle." 

I  wish  I  could  paint  or  act  the  man  for  you.  Words 
cannot  express  his  curious  character.  I  came  to  have 
a  great  fondness  for  him,  and  certainly  owed  him  a 
huge  debt  of  gratitude. 

One  day  I  was  paying  my  usual  visit  to  the 
Post  Office,  when  some  one  gripped  me  by  the 
arm. 

"  Hullo,  Scotty!  By  all  that's  wonderful.  I  was 
just  going  to  mail  you  a  letter." 

It  was  the  Prodigal,  very  well  dressed  and  spruce- 
looking. 

"  Say,  I'm  so  tickled  I  got  you;  we're  going  to  start 
in  two  days." 

"Start!     Where?  "I  asked. 

"Why,  for  the  Golden  North,  for  the  land  of  the 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  47 

Midnight  Sun,  for  the  treasure-troves  of  the  Klondike 
Valley." 

"  You  may  be,"  I  said  soberly;  "  but  I  can't." 

"  Yes  you  can,  and  you  are,  old  sport.  I  fixed  all 
that.  Come  on,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  went  home 
and  did  the  returned  prodigal  stunt.  The  old  man 
was  mighty  decent  when  I  told  him  it  was  no  good,  I 
couldn't  go  into  the  glue  factory  yet  awhile.  Told 
him  I  had  the  gold-bug  awful  bad  and  nothing  but  a 
trip  up  there  would  cure  me.  He  was  rather  tickled 
with  the  idea.  Staked  me  handsomely,  and  gave  me 
a  year  to  make  good.  So  here  I  am,  and  you're  in 
with  me.  I'm  going  to  grubstake  you.  Mind,  it's 
a  business  proposition.  I've  got  to  have  some  one, 
and  when  you  make  the  big  strike  you've  got  to  divvy 
up." 

I  said  something  about  having  secured  employ- 
ment as  an  under-gardener. 

"Pshaw!  you'll  soon  be  digging  gold-nuggets  in- 
stead of  potatoes.  Why,  man,  it's  the  chance  of  a 
lifetime,  and  anybody  else  would  jump  at  it.  Of 
course,  if  you're  afraid  of  the  hardships  and  so 
on " 

"  No,"  I  said  quickly,  "  I'll  go." 

"  Ha !  "  he  laughed,  "  you're  too  much  of  a  coward 
to  be  afraid.  Well,  we're  going  to  be  blighted 
Argonauts,  but  we've  got  to  get  busy  over  our  out- 
fits.    We  haven't  got  any  too  much  time." 

So  we  hustled  around.  It  seemed  as  if  half  of 
San  Francisco  was  Klondike-crazy.  On  every  hand 
was    there    speculation    and    excitement.     All    the 


48  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

merchants  had  their  outfitting  departments,  and  wild 
and  vague  were  their  notions  as  to  what  was  required. 
We  did  not  do  so  badly,  though  like  every  one  else 
we  bought  much  that  was  worthless  and  foolish. 
Suddenly  I  bethought  me  of  Salvation  Jim,  and  I 
told  the  Prodigal  of  my  new  friend. 

"He's  an  awfully  good  sort,"  I  said;  "white  all 
through;  all  kinds  of  experience,  and  he's  going 
alone." 

"  Why,"  said  the  Prodigal,  "  that's  just  the  man 
we  want.     We'll  ask  him  to  join  us." 

I  brought  the  two  together,  and  It  was  arranged. 
So  It  came  about  that  we  three  left  San  Francisco  on 
the  fourth  day  of  March  to  seek  our  fortunes  In  the 
Frozen  North. 


BOOK  II 
THE  TRAIL 


Gold!    We  leaped  from  our  benches.    Gold!    We  sprang 

from  our  stools. 
Gold!     We  wheeled  in  the  furrow,  fired  with  the  faith  of 

fools. 
Fearless,   unfound,    unfitted,    far   from   the   night   and    the 

cold. 
Heard  we  the  clarion  summons,  followed  the  master-lure — 

Gold! 


CHAPTER  I 

"  Say  !  you're  looking  mighty  blue.  Cheer  up, 
darn  you!  What's  the  matter?"  said  the  Prodigal 
affectionately. 

And  indeed  there  was  matter  enough,  for  had  I 
not  just  received  letters  from  home,  one  from  Garry 
and  one  from  Mother?  Garry's  was  gravely  cen- 
sorious, almost  remonstrant.  Mother,  he  said,  was 
poorly,  and  greatly  put  out  over  my  escapade.  He 
pointed  out  that  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  a 
rolling  stone,  and  hoped  that  I  would  at  once  give 
up  my  mad  notion  of  the  South  Seas  and  soberly 
proceed  to  the  Northwest. 

Mother's  letter  was  reproachful,  in  parts  almost 
distressful.  She  was  failing,  she  said,  and  she  begged 
me  to  be  a  good  son,  give  up  my  wanderings  and 
join  my  cousin  at  once.  Also  she  enclosed  post- 
office  orders  for  forty  pounds.  Her  letter,  written 
in  a  fine  faltering  hand  and  so  full  of  gentle  affec- 
tion, brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes;  so  that  it  was 
very  bleakly  I  leaned  against  the  ship's  rail  and 
watched  the  bustle  of  departure.  Poor  Mother! 
Dear  old  Garry !  With  what  tender  longing  I 
thought  of  those  two  in  far-away  Glengyle,  the 
Scotch  mist  silvering  the  heather  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing caller  from  the  sea.  Oh,  for  the  clean,  keen 
breath  of  it!     Yet  alas,  every  day  was  the  memory 

51 


52  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

fading,  and  every  day  was  I  fitting  more  snugly  into 
the  new  life. 

"  I've  just  heard  from  the  folks,"  I  said,  "  and  I 
feel  like  going  back  on  you." 

"Oh,  beat  it,"  he  cried;  "you  can't  renig  now. 
You've  got  to  see  the  thing  through.  Mothers  are 
all  like  that  when  you  cut  loose  from  their  apron- 
strings.  Ma's  scared  stiff  about  me,  thinks  the 
devil's  got  an  option  on  my  future  sure.  They  get 
wised  up  pretty  soon.  What  you  want  to  do  is  to 
get  busy  and  make  yourself  acquainted.  Here  I've 
been  snooping  round  for  the  last  two  hours,  and 
got  a  line  on  nearly  every  one  on  board.  Say !  Of 
all  the  locoed  outfits  this  here  aggregation  has  got 
everything  else  skinned  to  a  hard-boiled  finish. 
Most  of  them  are  indoor  men,  ink-slingers  and  calico 
snippers;  haven't  done  a  day's  hard  work  in  their 
lives,  and  don't  know  a  pick  from  a  mattock. 
They've  got  a  notion  they've  just  got  to  get  up  there 
and  pick  big  nuggets  out  of  the  water  like  cherries 
out  of  a  cocktail.      It's  the  limit." 

"  Tell  me  about  them,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  see  that  young  fellow  standing  near  us?  " 

I  looked.  He  was  slim,  with  gentle,  refined 
features  and  an  unnaturally  fresh  complexion. 

"  That  fellow  was  a  pen-pusher  in  a  mazuma  em- 
porium— I  mean  a  bank  clerk.  Pinklove's  his  name. 
He  wanted  to  get  hitched  to  some  girl,  but  the  di- 
rectors wouldn't  stand  for  it.  Now  he's  chucked  his 
job  and  staked  his  savings  on  this  trip.  There's  his 
girl  in  the  crowd." 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  53 

Bedded  in  that  mosaic  of  human  faces  I  saw  one 
that  was  all  sweetness,  yet  shamelessly  tear-stained. 

"  Lucky  beggar,"  I  said,  "  to  have  some  one  who 
cares  so  much  about  his  going." 

*'  Unlucky,  you  mean,  lad.  You  don't  want  to 
have  any  strings  on  you  when  you  play  this  game." 

He  pointed  to  a  long-haired  young  man  in  a  flow- 
ing-end tie. 

"  See  that  pale-faced,  artistic-looking  guy  along- 
side him.  That's  his  partner.  Ineffectual,  moony 
sort  of  a  mut.  He's  a  wood-carver;  they  call  him 
Globstock;  told  me  his  knowledge  of  wood-carving 
would  come  in  handy  when  we  came  to  make  boats 
at  Lake  Bennett.  Then  there's  a  third.  See  that 
little  fellow  shooting  off  his  face?  " 

I  saw  a  weazened,  narrow-chested  mannikin,  with 
an  aggressive  certainty  of  feature. 

"  He's  a  professor,  plumb-full  of  book  dope  on 
the  Yukon.  He's  Mister  Wise  Mike.  He  knows  it 
all.  Hear  his  monologue  on  '  How  It  Should  Be 
Done.'  He's  going  to  live  on  deck  to  inure  himself 
to  the  rigours  of  the  Arctic  climate.  Works  with  a 
pair  of  spring  dumb-bells  to  get  up  his  muscle  so's 
he  can  shovel  out  the  nuggets." 

Our  eyes  roved  round  from  group  to  group,  pick- 
ing out  characteristic  figures. 

"  See  that  big  bleached-blond  Englishman  ?  Came 
over  with  me  on  the  Pullman  from  New  York. 
'  Awfully  bored,  don't  you  know.'  When  we  got 
to  'Frisco,  he  says  to  me :  '  Thank  God,  old  chappie, 
the  worst  part  of  the  journey's  over.'     Then  there's 


54  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

Romulus  and  Remus,  the  twins,  strapping  young 
fellows.  Only  way  I  know  them  apart  is  one  laces 
his  boots  tight,  the  other  slack.  They  think  the 
world  of  each  other." 

He  swung  around  to  where  Salvation  Jim  was 
talking  to  two  men. 

"  There's  a  pair  of  winners.  I  put  my  money 
on  them.  Nothing  on  earth  can  stop  those  fellows, 
native-born  Americans,  all  grit  and  get-up.  See 
that  tall  one  smoking  a  cigar  and  looking  at  the 
women?  He's  an  athlete.  Name's  Mervin;  all 
whipcord  and  whalebone;  springy  as  a  bent  bow. 
He's  a  type  of  the  Swift.  He's  bound  to  get  there. 
See  the  other.  Hewson's  his  name;  solid  as  a  tower; 
muscled  like  a  bear;  built  from  the  ground  up.  He 
represents  the  Strong.  Look  at  the  grim,  deter- 
mined face  of  him.  You  can't  down  a  man  like 
that." 

He  indicated  another  group. 

"  Now  there's  three  birds  of  prey.  Bullhammer, 
Marks  and  Mosher.  The  big,  pig-eyed  heavy- 
jowled  one  is  Bullhammer.  He's  in  the  saloon 
business.  The  middle-sized  one  in  the  plug  hat  is 
Marks.  See  his  oily,  yellow  face  dotted  with  pim- 
ples. He's  a  phoney  piece  of  work;  calls  himself  a 
mining  broker.  The  third's  Jake  Mosher.  He's 
an  out-and-out  gambler,  a  sure-thing  man,  once  was 
a  parson." 

I  looked  again.  Mosher  had  just  taken  off  his 
hat.  His  high-domed  head  was  of  monumental 
baldness,  his  eyes  close-set  and  crafty,  his  nose  negli- 


THE    TRAIL   OF    ^98  55 

gible.  The  rest  of  his  face  was  mostly  beard.  It 
grew  black  as  the  Pit  to  near  the  bulge  of  his 
stomach,  and  seemed  to  have  drained  his  scalp  in  its 
rank  luxuriance.  Across  the  deck  came  the  rich,  oily 
tones  of  his  voice. 

"A  bad-looking  bunch,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  there's  heaps  like  them  on  board.  There's 
a  crowd  of  dance-hall  girls  going  up,  and  the  usual 
following  of  parasites.  Look  at  that  Halfbreed. 
There's  a  man  for  the  country  now,  part  Scotch,  part 
Indian;  the  quietest  man  on  the  boat;  light,  but  tough 
as  wire  nails." 

I  saw  a  lean,  bright-eyed  brown  man  with  flat 
features,  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Say!  Just  get  next  to  those  two  Jews,  Mike 
and  Rebecca  Winklestein.  They're  going  to  open 
up  a  sporty  restaurant." 

The  man  was  a  small  bandy-legged  creature,  with 
eyes  that  squinted,  a  complexion  like  ham  fat  and 
waxed  moustaches.  But  it  was  the  woman  who 
seized  my  attention.  Never  did  I  see  such  a  strap- 
ping Amazon,  six  foot  if  an  inch,  and  massive  in 
proportion.  She  was  handsome  too,  in  a  swarthy 
way,  though  near  at  hand  her  face  was  sensuous  and 
bold.  Yet  she  had  a  suave,  flattering  manner  and 
a  coarse  wit  that  captured  the  crowd.  Dangerous, 
unscrupulous  and  cruel,  I  thought;  a  man-woman,  a 
shrew,  a  termagant ! 

But  I  was  growing  weai-y  of  the  crowd  and  longed 
to  go  below.  I  was  no  longer  interested,  yet  the 
voice  of  the  Prodigal   droned   in  my  ear. 


S6  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"  There's  an  old  man  and  his  granddaughter,  rel- 
atives of  the  Winklesteins,  I  believe.  I  think  the 
old  fellow's  got  a  screw  loose.  Handsome  old  boy, 
though ;  looks  like  a  Hebrew  prophet  out  of  a  job. 
Comes  from  Poland.  Speaks  Yiddish  or  some  such 
jargon.  Only  English  he  knows  is  '  Klondike, 
Klondike.'  The  girl  looks  heartbroken,  poor  little 
beggar." 

"Poor  little  beggar!"  I  heard  the  words  in- 
deed, but  my  mind  was  far  away.  To  the  devil 
with  Polish  Jews  and  their  granddaughters.  I 
wished  the  Prodigal  would  leave  me  to  my  own 
thoughts,  thoughts  of  my  Highland  home  and  my 
dear  ones.     But  no!  he  persisted: 

"  You're  not  listening  to  what  I'm  saying.  Look, 
why  don't  you  !  " 

So,  to  please  him,  I  turned  full  round  and  looked. 
An  old  man,  patriarchal  in  aspect,  crouched  on  the 
deck.  Erect  by  his  side,  with  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  stood  a  slim  figure  in  black,  the  figure  of 
a  girl.  Indifferently  my  eyes  travelled  from  her 
feet  to  her  face.  There  they  rested.  I  drew  a  deep 
breath.  I  forgot  everything  else.  Then  for  the 
first  time  I  saw — Berna. 

I  will  not  try  to  depict  the  girl.  Pen  descrip- 
tions are  so  futile.  I  will  only  say  that  her  face  was 
very  pale,  and  that  she  had  large  pathetic  grey  eyes. 
For  the  rest,  her  cheeks  were  woefully  pinched  and 
her  lips  drooped  wistfully.  'Twas  the  face,  I 
thought,  of  a  virgin  martyr  with  a  fear-haunted  look 
hard  to  forget.     All  this  I  saw,  but  most  of  all  I 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  57 

saw  those  great,  grey  eyes  gazing  unseeingly  over 
the  crowd,  ever  so  sadly  fixed  on  that  far-away  East 
of  her  dreams  and  memories. 

"  Poor  little  beggar!  " 

Then  I  cursed  myself  for  a  sentimental  impres- 
sionist and  I  went  below.  Stateroom  forty-seven 
was  mine.  We  three  had  been  separated  in  the 
shuffle,  and  I  knew  not  who  was  to  be  my  room-mate. 
Feeling  vei"y  downhearted,  I  stretched  myself  on 
the  upper  berth,  and  yielded  to  a  mood  of  penitential 
sadness.  I  heard  the  last  gang-plank  thrown  off,  the 
great  crowd  cheer,  the  measured  throb  of  the  en- 
gines, yet  still  I  sounded  the  depths  of  reverie.  There 
was  a  bustle  outside  and  growing  darkness.  Then, 
as  I  lay,  there  came  voices  to  my  door,  guttural 
tones  blended  with  liquid  ones;  lastly  a  timid  knock. 
Quickly  I  answered  it. 

"  Is  this  room  number  forty-seven?  "  a  soft  voice 
asked. 

Even  ere  she  spoke  I  divined  it  was  the  Jewish 
girl  of  the  grey  eyes,  and  now  I  saw  her  hair  was 
like  a  fair  cloud,  and  her  face  fragile  as  a  flower. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  her. 

She  led  forward  the  old  man. 

"  This  is  my  grandfather.  The  Steward  told  us 
this  was  his  room." 

'*  Oh,  all  right;  he'd  better  take  the  lower  berth." 

"Thank  you,  indeed;  he's  an  old  man  and  not 
very  strong." 

Her  voice  was  clear  and  sweet,  and  there  was  an 
infinite  tenderness  in  the  tone. 


58  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

"  You  must  come  in,"  I  said.  "  I'll  leave  you 
with  him  for  a  while  so  that  you  can  make  him  com- 
fortable." • 

"  Thank  you  again,"  she  responded  gratefully. 

So  I  withdrew,  and  when  I  returned  she  was  gone; 
but  the  old  man  slept  peacefully. 

It  was  late  before  I  turned  in.  I  went  on  deck 
for  a  time.  We  were  cleaving  through  blue-black 
night,  and  on  our  right  I  could  dimly  discern  the 
coast  festooned  by  twinkling  lights.  Every  one  had 
gone  below,  I  thought,  and  the  loneliness  pleased 
me.  I  was  very  quiet,  thinking  how  good  it  all 
was,  the  balmy  wind,  the  velvet  vault  of  the  night 
frescoed  with  wistful  stars,  the  freedom-song  of  the 
sea;  how  restful,  how  sane,  how  loving! 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  sound  of  sobbing,  the  merci- 
less sobbing  of  a  woman's  breast.  Distinct  above 
the  hollow  breathing  of  the  sea  it  assailed  me, 
poignant  and  insistent.  Wonderingly  I  looked 
around.  Then,  in  a  shadow  of  the  upper  deck,  I 
made  out  a  slight  girl-figure,  crouching  all  alone.  It 
was  Grey  Eyes,  crying  fit  to  break  her  heart. 

"Poor  little  beggar!"  I  muttered. 


CHAPTER  II 

"  Gr-R-R — you  little  brat !  If  you  open  your  face 
to  him  I'll  kill  you,  kill  you,  see!  " 

The  voice  was  Madam  Winklestein's,  and  the 
words,  hissed  in  a  whisper  of  incredible  malignity, 
arrested  me  as  if  I  had  been  struck  by  a  live  wire. 
I  listened.  Behind  the  stateroom  door  there  fol- 
lowed a  silence,  grimly  intense;  then  a  dull  pound- 
ing; then  the  same  savage  undertone. 

"  See  here,  Berna,  we're  next  to  you  two — we're 
onto  your  curves.  We  know  the  old  man's  got  the 
stuff  in  his  gold-belt,  two  thousand  in  bills.  Now, 
my  dear,  my  sweet  little  angel  what  thinks  she's  too 
good  to  mix  with  the  likes  o'  us,  we  need  the  mon, 
see!"  (Knock,  knock.)  "And  we're  goin'  to 
have  it,  see!"  (Knock,  knock.)  "That's  where 
you  come  in,  honey,  you're  goin'  to  get  it  for  us. 
Ain't  you  now,  darlin' !  "      (Knock,  knock,  knock.) 

Faintly,  very  faintly,  I  heard  a  voice: 

"  No." 

If  it  be  possible  to  scream  in  a  whisper,  the  woman 
did  it. 

"  You  will !  you  will !  Oh  !  oh !  oh  !  There's  the 
cursed  mule  spirit  of  your  mother  in  you.  She'd 
never  tell  us  the  name  of  the  man  that  was  the  ruin 
of  'er,  blast  'er." 

"  Don't  speak  of  my  mother,  you  vile  woman !  " 

59 


6o  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

The  voice  of  the  virago  contracted  to  an  intensity 
of  venom  I  have  never  heard  the  equal  of. 

"Vile  woman!  Vile  woman!  You,  you  to  call 
me  a  vile  woman,  me  that's  been  three  times  jined 
in  holy  wedlock.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  bastard  brat !  You 
whelp  of  sin!  You  misbegotten  scum!  Oh,  I'll 
fix  you  for  that,  if  I've  got  to  swing  for  It." 

Her  scalding  words  were  capped  with  an  oath  too 
foul  to  repeat,  and  once  more  came  the  horrible 
pounding,  like  a  head  striking  the  woodwork.  Un- 
able to  bear  it  any  longer,  I  rapped  sharply  on  the 
door. 

Silence,  a  long,  panting  silence;  then  the  sound 
of  a  falling  body;  then  the  door  opened  a  little  and 
the  twitching  face  of  Madam  appeared, 

"  Is  there  somebody  sick?  "  I  asked,  "  I'm  soriy 
to  trouble  you,  but  I  was  thinking  I  heard  groans 
and — I  might  be  able  to  do  something." 

Piercingly  she  looked  at  me.  Her  eyes  nar- 
rowed to  slits  and  stabbed  me  with  their  spite.  Her 
dark  face  grew  turgid  with  impotent  anger.  As 
I  stood  there  she  was  like  to  have  killed  me.  Then 
like  a  flash  her  expression  changed.  With  a  dirty 
bejewelled  hand  she  smoothed  her  tousled  hair.  Her 
coarse  white  teeth  gleamed  in  a  gold-capped  smile. 
There  was  honey  in  her  tone. 

"  Why,  no !  my  niece  in  here's  got  a  toothache, 
but  I  guess  we  can  fix  it  between  us.  We  don't  need 
no  help,  thanks,  young  feller." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  I  said.  "  If  you  should, 
you  know,  I'll  be  nearby." 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  6i 

Then  I  moved  away,  conscious  that  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed me  malevolently. 

The  business  worried  me  sorely.  The  poor  girl 
was  being  woefully  abused,  that  was  plain.  I  felt  in- 
dignant, angry  and,  last  of  all,  anxious.  Mingled 
with  my  feelings  was  a  sense  of  irritation  that  I 
should  have  been  elected  to  overhear  the  affair.  I 
had  no  desire  just  then  to  champion  distressed  dam- 
sels, least  of  all  to  get  mixed  up  in  the  family  brawls 
of  unknown  Jewesses.  Confound  her,  anyway!  I 
almost  hated  her.  Yet  I  felt  constrained  to  watch 
and  wait,  and  even  at  the  cost  of  my  own  ease  and 
comfort  to  prevent  further  violence. 

For  that  matter  there  were  all  kinds  of  strange 
doings  OB  board,  drinking,  gambling,  nightly  orgies 
and  hourly  brawls.  It  seemed  as  if  we  had  shipped 
all  the  human  dregs  of  the  San  Francisco  dead-line. 
Never,  I  believe,  in  those  times  when  almost  daily 
the  Argonaut-laden  boats  were  sailing  for  the  Golden 
North,  was  there  one  in  which  the  sporting  element 
was  so  dominant.  The  social  hall  reeked  with 
patchouli  and  stale  whiskey.  From  the  staterooms 
came  shrill  outbursts  of  popular  melody,  punctuated 
with  the  popping  of  champagne  corks.  Dance-hall 
girls,  babbling  incoherently,  reeled  in  the  passage- 
ways, danced  on  the  cabin  table,  and  were  only  held 
back  from  licentiousness  by  the  restraint  of  their 
bullies.  The  day  was  one  long  round  of  revelry, 
and  the  night  was  pregnant  with  sinister  sound. 

Already  among  the  better  element  a  moral  seces- 
sion was   apparent.      Convention   they  had  left  be- 


62  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

hind  with  their  boiled  shirts  and  their  store  clothes, 
and  crazed  with  the  idea  of  speedy  fortune,  they 
were  even  now  straining  at  the  leash  of  decency. 
It  was  a  howling  mob,  elately  riotous,  and  already 
infected  by  the  virus  of  the  goldophobia. 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  get  on  deck  of  a  night,  away 
from  this  saturnalia,  to  watch  the  beacon  stars 
strewn  vastly  in  the  skyey  uplift,  to  listen  to  the 
ancient  threnody  of  the  outcast  sea.  Blue  and  silver 
the  nights  were,  and  crystal  clear,  with  a  keen  wind 
that  painted  the  cheek  and  kindled  the  eye.  And  as 
I  sat  in  silent  thought  there  came  to  me  Salvation 
Jim.  His  face  was  grim,  his  eyes  brooding.  From 
the  brilliantly  lit  social  hall  came  a  blare  of  music- 
hall  melody. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  of  things  a  bit,"  he  said; 
"  I  don't  like  it.  Look  here  now,  lad,  I've  lived 
round  mining  camps  for  twenty  years,  I've  followed 
the  roughest  callings  on  earth,  I've  tramped  the 
States  all  over,  yet  never  have  I  seen  the  beat  of 
this.  Mind  you,  I  ain't  prejudiced,  though  I've 
seen  the  error  of  my  ways,  glory  to  God!  I  can 
make  allowance  once  in  a  while  for  the  boys  gettin' 
on  a  jamboree,  but  by  Christmas!  Say!  There's 
enough  evil  on  this  boat  to  stake  a  sub-section  in 
Hell.  There's  men  should  be  at  home  with  their 
dinky  little  mothers  an'  their  lovin'  wives  an'  chil- 
dren, down  there  right  now  in  that  cabin  buyin'  wine 
for  them  painted  Jezebels. 

"  There's  doctors  an'  lawyers  an'  deacons  in  the 
church  back  In  old  Ohio,  that  never  made  a  bad 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  63 

break  In  their  lives,  an'  now  they're  rowin'  like  bar- 
room bullies  for  the  kisses  of  a  baggage.  In  the 
bay-window  of  their  souls  the  devil  lolls  an'  grins 
an'  God  is  freezin'  in  the  attic.  You  mark  my  words; 
boy;  there's  a  curse  on  this  northern  gold.  The 
Yukon's  a-goin'  to  take  its  toll.  You  mark  my 
words." 

"  Oh,  Jim,"  I  said,  "  you're  superstitious." 

"  No,  I  ain't.  I've  just  got  a  hunch.  Here  we 
are  a  bit  of  floatin'  iniquity  glidin'  through  the  mys- 
tery of  them  strange  seas,  an'  the  very  officers  on 
dooty  sashed  to  the  neck  an'  reekin'  from  the  arms 
of  the  scented  hussies  below.  It'll  be  God's  mercy 
if  we  don't  crash  on  a  rock,  an'  go  down  good  an' 
all  to  the  bitter  bottom.  But  it  don't  matter. 
Sooner  or  later  there's  goin'  to  be  a  reckonin'. 
There's  many  a  one  shoutin'  an'  singin'  to-night'll 
leave  his  bones  to  bleach  up  in  that  bleak  wild 
land." 

"  No,  Jim,"  I  protested,  "  they  will  be  all  right 
once  they  get  ashore." 

"  Right  nothin' !  They're  a  pack  of  fools. 
They  think  they've  got  a  bulge  on  fortune.  Hear 
them  a-howlin'  now.  They're  all  millionaires  in 
their  minds.  There's  no  doubt  with  them.  It's 
a  cinch.  They're  spendin'  it  right  now.  You  mark 
my  words,  young  feller,  for  I'll  never  live  to  see 
them  fulfilled — there's  ninety  in  a  hundred  of  all 
them  fellers  that's  goin'  to  this  here  Klondike  will 
never  make  good,  an'  of  the  other  ten,  nine  won't 
do  no  good." 


64  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  One  per  cent,  that  will  keep  their  stakes — that's 
absurd,  Jim." 

"  Well,  you'll  see.  An'  as  for  me,  I  feel  as 
sure  as  God's  above  us  guidin'  us  through  the 
mazes  of  the  night,  I'll  never  live  to  make  the  trip 
back.  I've  got  a  hunch.  Old  Jim's  on  his  last 
stampede." 

He  sighed,  then  said  sharply: 

"  Did  you  see  that  feller  that  passed  us?  " 

It  was  Mosher,  the  gambler  and  ex-preacher. 

"  That  man's  a  skunk,  a  renegade  sky-pilot.  I'm 
keepin'  tabs  on  that  man.  Maybe  him  an'  me's  got 
a  score  to  settle  one  of  them  days.     Maybe." 

He  went  off  abruptly,  leaving  me  to  ponder  long 
over  his  gloomy  words. 

We  were  now  three  days  out.  The  weather  was 
fine,  and  nearly  every  one  was  on  deck  in  the  sun- 
shine. Even  Bullhammer,  Marks  and  Mosher  had 
deserted  the  card-room  for  a  time.  The  Bank  clerk 
and  the  Wood-carver  talked  earnestly,  planned  and 
dreamed.  The  Professor  was  busy  expounding  a 
theory  of  the  gold  origin  to  a  party  of  young  men 
from  Minnesota.  Silent  and  watchful  the  athletic 
Mervin  smoked  his  big  cigar,  while,  patient  and 
imperturbable,  the  iron  Hewson  chewed  stolidly. 
The  twins  were  playing  checkers.  The  Winklesteins 
were  making  themselves  solid  with  the  music-hall 
clique.  In  and  out  among  the  different  groups 
darted  the  Prodigal,  as  volatile  as  a  society  reporter 
at  a  church  bazaar.  And  besides  these,  always  alone, 
austerely  aloof  as  if  framed  in  a  picture  by  them- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  65 

selves,  a  picture  of  dignity  and  sweetness,  were  the 
Jewish  maid  and  her  aged  grandfather. 

Although  he  was  my  room-mate  I  had  seen  but 
little  of  him.  He  was  abed  before  I  retired  and  I 
was  up  and  out  ere  he  awoke.  For  the  rest  I  avoided 
the  two  because  of  their  obvious  connection  with  the 
Winklesteins.  Surely,  thought  I,  she  cannot  be  mixed 
up  with  those  two  and  be  everything  that's  all  right. 
Yet  there  was  something  in  the  girl's  clear  eyes,  and 
in  the  old  man's  fine  face,  that  reproached  me  for  my 
doubt. 

It  was  while  I  was  thus  debating,  and  covertly 
studying  the  pair,  that  something  occurred. 

Bullhammer  and  Marks  were  standing  by  me,  and 
across  the  deck  came  the  acridly  nasal  tones  of  the 
dance-hall  girls.  I  saw  the  libertine  eyes  of  Bull- 
hammer  rove  Incontinently  from  one  unlovely  demi- 
rep to  another,  till  at  last  they  rested  on  the  slender 
girl  standing  by  the  side  of  her  white-haired  grand- 
father.    Appreciatively  he  licked  his  lips. 

"  Say,  Monkey,  who's  the  kid  with  old  Whiskers 
there?" 

"  Search  me,  Pete,"  said  Marks;  "  want  a  knock- 
down?" 

"Betcher!  Seems  kinda  standoffish,  though, 
don't  she?" 

"  Standoffish  be  darned !  Never  yet  saw  the  little 
bit  of  all  right  that  could  stand  off  Sam  Marks.  I'm 
a  winner,  I  am,  an'  don'  you  forget  it.  Just  watch 
my  splash." 

I  must  say   the  man  was  expensively  dressed  in 


66  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

a  flashy  way.  His  oily,  pimple-garnished  face 
wreathed  itself  in  a  smirk  of  patronising  familiarity, 
and  with  the  bow  of  a  dancing  master  he  advanced. 
I  saw  her  give  a  quick  start,  bite  her  lip  and  shrink 
back.  "  Good  for  you,  little  girl,"  I  thought.  But 
the  man  was  in  no  way  put  out. 

"  Say,  Sis,  it's  all  right.  Just  want  to  interdooce 
you  to  a  gentleman  fren'  o'  mine." 

The  girl  gazed  at  him,  and  her  dilated  eyes  were 
eloquent  of  fear  and  distrust.  It  minded  me  of  the 
panic  of  a  fawn  run  down  by  the  hunter,  so  that  I 
found  myself  trembling  in  sympathy.  A  startled 
moment  she  gazed;  then  swiftly  she  turned  her  back. 

This  was  too  much  for  Marks.  He  flushed 
angrily. 

"  Say!  what's  the  matter  with  you?  Come  off  the 
perch  there.  Ain't  we  good  enough  to  associate 
with  you?     Who  the  devil  are  you,  anyhow?  " 

His  face  was  growing  red  and  aggressive.  He 
closed  in  on  her.  He  laid  a  rough  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  Thinking  the  thing  had  gone  far  enough 
I  stepped  forward  to  interfere,  when  the  unexpected 
happened. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  it 
was  a  surprise  to  me  how  tall  he  was.  Into  his  face 
there  had  come  the  ghost  of  ancient  power  and  com- 
mand. His  eyes  blazed  with  wrath,  and  his  clenched 
fist  was  raised  high  in  anathema.  Then  it  came 
swiftly  down  on  the  head  of  Marks,  crushing  his 
stiff  hat  tightly  over  his  eyes. 

The  climax  was  ludicrous  in  a  way.     There  was 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  67 

a  roar  of  laughter,  and  hearing  it  Marks  spluttered 
as  he  freed  himself.  With  a  curse  of  rage  he  would 
have  rushed  the  old  man,  but  a  great  hand  seized 
him  by  the  shoulder.  It  was  the  grim,  taciturn 
Hewson,  and  judging  by  the  way  his  captive 
squirmed,  his  grip  must  have  been  peculiarly  vise- 
like. The  old  man  was  pale  as  death,  the  girl  cry- 
ing, the  passengers  crowding  round.  Every  one  was 
gabbling  and  curious,  so  feeling  I  could  do  no  good, 
I  went  below. 

What  was  there  about  this  slip  of  a  girl  that  in- 
terested me  so?  Ever  and  anon  I  found  myself 
thinking  of  her.  Was  it  the  conversation  I  had 
overheard?  Was  it  the  mystery  that  seemed  to 
surround  her?  Was  it  the  irrepressible  instinct  of 
my  heart  for  the  romance  of  life?  With  the  old 
man,  despite  our  stateroom  propinquity,  I  had  made 
no  advances.  With  the  girl  I  had  passed  no  further 
words. 

But  the  Gods  of  destiny  act  in  whimsical  ways. 
Doubtless  the  voyage  would  have  finished  without 
the  betterment  of  our  acquaintance;  doubtless  our 
paths  would  have  parted,  nevermore  to  cross;  doubt- 
less our  lives  would  have  been  lived  out  to  their  ful- 
ness and  this  story  never  have  been  told — had  it  not 
been  for  the  luckless  fatality  of  the  Box  of  Grapes. 


CHAPTER  III 

PuGET  Sound  was  behind  us  and  we  had  entered  on 
that  great  sea  that  stretched  northward  to  the  Arctic 
barrens.  Misty  and  wet  was  the  wind,  and  cold 
with  the  kiss  of  many  icebergs.  Under  a  grey  sky, 
glooming  to  purple,  the  gelid  water  writhed  nakedly. 
Spectral  islands  elbowed  each  other,  to  peer  at  us  as 
we  flitted  past.  Still  more  wraithlike  the  mainland, 
fringed  to  the  sea  foam  with  saturnine  pine,  faded 
away  into  fastnesses  of  impregnable  desolation. 
There  was  a  sense  of  deathlike  passivity  in  the  land, 
of  overwhelming  vastitude,  of  unconquerable  lone- 
liness. It  was  as  if  I  had  felt  for  the  first  time  the 
Spirit  of  the  Wild;  the  Wild  where  God  broods 
amid  His  silence;  the  Wild,  His  infinite  solace  and 
His  sanctuary. 

As  we  forged  through  the  vague  sea  lanes,  we 
were  like  a  glittering  trinket  on  the  bosom  of  the 
night.  Our  .  mad  merriment  scarce  ever  abated. 
We  were  a  blare  of  revelry  and  a  blaze  of  light. 
Excitement  mounted  to  fever  heat.  In  the  midst  of 
it  the  women  with  the  enamelled  cheeks  reaped  a 
bountiful  harvest.  I  marvel  now  that,  with  all  the 
besotted  recklessness  of  those  that  were  our  pilots, 
we  met  with  no  serious  mishap. 

"  Don't  mind  you  much  of  a  Sunday-school  pic- 
nic,   does    it? "    commented    the    Prodigal.     *'  It's 

68 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  69 

fierce  the  way  the  girls  are  prying  some  of  these  crazy 
jays  loose  from  their  wads.  They're  all  plumb 
batty.  I'm  tired  trying  to  wise  them  up.  '  Go  and 
chase  yourself,'  they  say;  'we're  all  right.  Don't 
matter  if  we  do  loosen  up  a  bit  now,  there's  all  kinds 
of  easy  money  waiting  for  us  up  there.'  Then 
they  talk  of  what  they're  going  to  do  when  they've 
got  the  dough.  One  gazebo  wants  to  buy  a  castle 
in  the  old  country;  another  wants  a  racing  stable; 
another  a  steam  yacht.  Oh,  they're  a  hot  bunch  of 
sports.  They're  all  planning  to  have  a  purple  time 
in  the  sweet  by-and-bye.  I  don't  hear  any  of  them 
speak  of  endowing  a  home  for  decrepit  wash-ladies 
or  pensioning  off  their  aged  grandmothers.  They 
make  me  sick.  There's  a  cold  juicy  awakening 
coming." 

He  was  right.  In  their  visionary  leaps  to  afflu- 
ence they  soared  to  giddy  heights.  They  strutted 
and  bragged  as  if  the  millions  were  already  theirs. 
To  hear  them,  you  would  think  they  had  an  exclu- 
sive option  on  the  treasure-troves  of  the  Klondike. 
Yet,  before  and  behind  us,  were  dozens  of  similar 
vessels,  bearing  just  as  eager  a  mob  of  fortune- 
hunters,  all  drawn  irresistibly  northward  by  the 
^Golden  Magnet. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  hard  not  to  be  affected  by  the 
prevailing  spirit  of  optimism.  For  myself  the  gold 
had  but  little  attraction,  but  the  adventure  was  very 
dear  to  my  heart.  Once  more  the  clarion  call  of 
Romance  rang  in  my  ears,  and  I  leapt  to  its  sum- 
mons.    And  indeed,  I  reflected,  it  was  a  wonderful 


70  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

kaleidoscope  of  a  world,  wherein  I,  but  a  half-year 
back  cooling  my  heels  in  a  highland  burn,  should 
be  now  part  and  parcel  of  this  great  Argonaut  army. 
Already  my  native  uncouthness  was  a  thing  of  the 
past,  and  the  quaint  mannerisms  of  my  Scots  tongue 
were  yielding  to  the  racy  slang  of  the  frontier. 
More  to  the  purpose,  too,  I  was  growing  in  strength 
and  wiry  endurance.  As  I  looked  around  me  I  real- 
ised that  there  were  many  less  fitted  for  the  trail 
than  I,  and  there  was  none  with  such  a  store  of 
glowing  health.  You  may  picture  me  at  this  time, 
a  tallish  young  man,  with  a  fine  colour  in  my  cheeks, 
black  hair  that  curled  crisply,  and  dark  eyes  that 
were  either  alight  with  eagerness  or  agloom  with 
dreams. 

I  have  said  that  we  were  all  more  or  less  in  a 
ferment  of  excitement,  but  to  this  I  must  make  a 
reservation.  One  there  was  who,  amid  all  our  un- 
rest, remained  cold,  distant  and  alien — the  Jewish 
girl,  Berna.  Even  in  the  old  man  the  gold  fever 
betrayed  itself  in  a  visionary  eye  and  a  tremor  of 
the  lips;  but  the  girl  was  a  statue  of  patient  resigna- 
tion, a  living  reproof  to  our  febrile  and  purblind 
imaginings. 

The  more  I  studied  her,  the  more  out  of  place  she 
seemed  in  my  picture,  and,  almost  unconsciously,  I 
found  myself  weaving  about  her  a  fabric  of  romance. 
I  endowed  her  with  a  mystery  that  piqued  and  fasci- 
nated me,  yet  without  it  I  hav^e  no  doubt  I  would 
have  been  attracted  to  her.  I  longed  to  know  her 
uncommon  well,  to  win  her  regard,  to  do  something 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  71 

for  her  that  should  make  her  eyes  rest  very  kindly 
on  me.  In  short,  as  is  the  way  of  young  men,  I 
was  beginning  to  grope  blindly  for  that  affection  and 
sympathy  which  are  the  forerunners  of  passion  and 
love. 

The  land  was  wintry  and  the  wind  shrilled  so  that 
the  attendant  gulls  flapped  their  wings  hard  in  the 
face  of  it.  The  wolf-pack  of  the  sea  were  snarling 
whitely  as  they  ran.  The  decks  were  deserted,  and 
so  many  of  the  brawlers  were  sick  and  lay  like  dead 
folk  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  a  Sabbath  quiet  lay 
on  the  ship.  That  day  I  had  missed  the  old  man, 
and  on  going  below,  found  him  lying  as  one  sore 
stricken.  A  withered  hand  lay  on  his  brow,  and 
from  his  lips,  which  were  almost  purple,  thin  moans 
issued. 

"Poor  old  beggar,"  I  thought;  "I  wonder  if  I 
cannot  do  anything  for  him."  And  while  I  was 
thus  debating,  a  timid  knock  came  to  the  door.  I 
opened  it,  and  there  was  the  girl,  Berna. 

There  was  a  nervous  anxiety  in  her  manner,  and 
a  mute  interrogation  in   her  grey  eyes. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  a  little  sick  to-day,"  I  said  gently; 
"but  come  in,  won't  you,  and  see  him?" 

"  Thank  you."  Pity,  tenderness  and  love  seemed 
to  struggle  in  her  face  as  she  softly  bioished 
past  me.  With  some  words  of  endearment,  she 
fell  on  her  knees  beside  him,  and  her  small 
white  hand  sought  his  thin  gnarled  one.  As  if 
galvanised  into  life,  the  old  man  turned  gratefully 
to  her. 


72  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"  Maybe  he  would  care  for  some  coffee,"  I  said. 
*'  I  think  I  could  rustle  him  some." 

She  gave  me  a  queer,  sad  look  of  thanks. 

"  If  you  could,"  she  answered. 

When  I  returned  she  had  the  old  man  propped 
up  with  pillows.  She  took  the  coffee  from  me,  and 
held  the  cup  to  his  lips;  but  after  a  few  sips  he  turned 
away  wearily. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  care  for  that,"  I  said. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  he  won't  take  it." 

She  was  like  an  anxious  nurse  hovering  over  a 
patient.     She  thought  a  while. 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  had  some  fruit!  " 

Then  it  was  I  bethought  me  of  the  box  of  grapes. 
I  had  bought  them  just  before  leaving,  thinking  they 
would  be  a  grateful  surprise  to  my  companions. 
Obviously  I  had  been  inspired,  and  now  I  produced 
them  in  triumph,  big,  plump,  glossy  fellows,  buried 
in  the  fragrant  cedar  dust.  I  shook  clear  a  large 
bunch,  and  once  more  we  tried  the  old  man.  It 
seemed  as  if  we  had  hit  on  the  one  thing  needful, 
for  he  ate  eagerly.  She  watched  him  for  a  while 
with  a  growing  sense  of  relief,  and  when  he  had 
finished  and  was  resting  quietly,  she  turned  to  me. 

*'  I  don't  know  how  I  can  thank  you,  sir,  for  your 
kindness." 

"  Very  easily,"  I  said  quickly;  "  if  you  will  your- 
self accept  some  of  the  fruit,  I  shall  be  more  than 
repaid." 

She  gave  me  a  dubious  look;  then  such  a  bright, 
merry  light  flashed  into  her  eyes  that  she  was  radiant 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  73 

in  my  sight.  It  was  as  if  half  a  dozen  years  had 
fallen  from  her,  revealing  a  heart  capable  of  in- 
finite joy  and  happiness. 

"  If  you  will  share  them  with  me,"  she  said 
simply. 

So,  for  the  lack  of  chairs,  we  squatted  on  the 
narrow  stateroom  floor,  under  the  old  man's  kindly 
eye.  The  fruit  minded  us  of  sunlit  vines,  and  the 
careless  rapture  of  the  South.  To  me  the  situation 
was  one  of  rare  charm.  She  ate  daintily,  and  as 
we  talked,  I  studied  her  face  as  if  I  would  etch  it 
on  my  memory  forever. 

In  particular  I  noticed  the  wistful  contour  of  her 
cheek,  her  sensitive  mouth,  and  the  fine  modelling 
of  her  chin.  She  had  clear,  candid  eyes  and  sweep- 
ing lashes,  too.  Her  ears  were  shell-like,  and  her 
hair  soft,  wavy  and  warm.  These  things  I  marked 
minutely,  thinking  she  was  more  than  beautiful — 
she  was  even  pretty.  I  was  in  a  state  of  extraor- 
dinary elation,  like  a  man  that  has  found  a  jewel  in 
the  mire. 

It  must  be  remembered,  lest  I  appear  to  be  taking 
a  too  eager  interest  in  the  girl,  that  up  till  now  the 
world  of  woman  had  been  terra  incognita  to  me ; 
that  I  had  lived  a  singularly  cloistered  life,  and  that 
first  and  last  I  was  an  idealist.  This  girl  had  dis- 
tinction, mystery  and  charm,  and  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  I  found  a  joy  in  her  presence.  I 
proved  myself  a  perfect  artesian  well  of  conversation, 
talking  freely  of  the  ship,  of  our  fellow-passengers 
and  of   the  chances   of  the   venture.     I    found  her 


74  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

wonderfully  quick  in  the  uptake.  Her  mind  seemed 
nimbly  to  outrun  mine,  and  she  divined  my  words 
ere  I  had  them  uttered.  Yet  she  never  spoke  of 
herself,  and  when  I  left  them  together  I  was  full  of 
uneasy  questioning. 

Next  day  the  old  man  was  still  abed,  and  again 
the  girl  came  to  visit  him.  This  time  I  noticed  that 
much  of  her  timid  manner  was  gone,  and  in  its  stead 
was  a  shy  friendliness.  Once  more  the  box  of  grapes 
proved  a  mediator  between  us,  and  once  more  I  found 
In  her  a  reticent  but  sympathetic  audience — so  much 
so  that  I  was  frank  in  telling  her  of  myself,  my  home 
and  my  kinsfolk.  I  thought  that  maybe  my  talk 
would  weary  her,  but  she  listened  with  a  bright-eyed 
regard,  nodding  her  head  eagerly  at  times.  Yet  she 
spoke  no  word  of  her  own  affairs,  so  that  when  again 
I  left  them  together  I  was  as  much  In  the  dark  as 
ever. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  I  found  the  old  man  up 
and  dressed,  and  Berna  with  him.  She  looked 
brighter  and  happier  than  I  had  yet  seen  her,  and 
she  greeted  me  with  a  smiling  face.  Then,  after  a 
little,  she  said: 

"  My  grandfather  plays  the  violin.  Would  you 
mind  if  he  played  over  some  of  our  old-country 
songs?     It  would  comfort  him." 

"  No,  go  ahead,"  I  said;  "  I  wish  he  would." 

So  she  got  an  ancient  viohn,  and  the  old  man 
cuddled  It  lovingly  and  played  soft,  weird  melodies, 
songs  of  the  Czech  race,  that  made  me  think  of 
Romance,  of  love  and  hate,  and  passion  and  despair. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  75 

Piece  after  piece  he  played,  as  if  pouring  out  the 
sadness  and  heart-hunger  of  a  burdened  people, 
until  my  own  heart  ached  in  sympathy. 

The  wild  music  throbbed  with  passionate  sweet- 
ness and  despair.  Unobserved,  the  pale  twihght 
stole  into  the  little  cabin.  The  ruggedly  fine  face  of 
the  old  man  was  like  one  inspired,  and  with  clasped 
hands,  the  girl  sat,  very  white-faced  and  motionless. 
Then  I  saw  a  gleam  on  her  cheek,  the  soft  falling  of 
tears.  Somehow,  at  that  moment,  I  felt  drawn  very 
near  to  those  two,  the  music,  the  tears,  the  fervent 
sadness  of  their  faces.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  al- 
lowed to  share  with  them  a  few  moments  consecrated 
to  their  sorrow,  and  that  they  knew  I  understood. 

That  day  as  I  was  leaving,  I  said  to  her: 

"  Berna,  this  is  our  last  night  on  board." 

"  Yes." 

**  To-morrow  our  trails  divide,  maybe  never  again 
to  cross.  Will  you  come  up  on  deck  for  a  little 
while  to-night?     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Talk  to  me?" 

She  looked  startled,   incredulous.     She   hesitated. 

"  Please,  Berna,  it's  the  last  time." 

'*  All  right,"  she  answered  in  a  low  tone. 

Then  she  looked  at  me  curiously. 


CHAPTER  IV 

She  came  to  meet  me,  lily-white  and  sweet.  She 
was  but  thinly  wrapped,  and  shivered  so  that  I  put 
my  coat  around  her.  We  ventured  forward,  climb- 
ing over  a  huge  anchor  to  the  very  bow  of  the  boat, 
and  crouching  down  in  its  peak,  were  sheltered  from 
the  cold  breeze. 

We  were  cutting  through  smooth  water,  and  crowd- 
ing in  on  us  were  haggard  mountains,  with  now  and 
then  the  greenish  horror  of  a  glacier.  Overhead, 
in  the  desolate  sky,  the  new  moon  nursed  the  old 
moon  in  her  arms. 

''  Berna !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You're  not  happy,  Berna.  You're  in  sore 
trouble,  little  girl.  I  don't  know  why  you  come  up 
to  this  God-forsaken  country  or  why  you  are  with 
those  people.  I  don't  want  to  know;  but  if  there's 
anything  I  can  do  for  you,  any  way  I  can  prove  my- 
self a  true  friend,  tell  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

My  voice  betrayed  emotion.  I  could  feel  her 
slim  form,  very  close  to  me,  all  a-tremble.  In  the 
filtered  silver  of  the  crescent  moon,  I  could  see  her 
face,  wan  and  faintly  sweet.  Gently  I  prisoned  one 
of  her  hands  in  mine. 

She  did  not  speak  at  once.  Indeed,  she  was  quiet 
for  a  long  time,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  be 

76 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  77 

stricken  dumb,  or  as  if  some  feelings  were  conflicting 
within  her.  Then  at  last,  very  gently,  very  quietly, 
very  sweetly,  as  if  weighing  her  words,  she  spoke. 

"  No,  there's  nothing  you  can  do.  You've  been 
too  kind  all  along.  You're  the  only  one  on  the  boat 
that's  been  kind.  Most  of  the  others  have  looked 
at  me — well,  you  know  how  men  look  at  a  poor, 
unprotected  girl.  But  you,  you're  different;  you're 
good,  you're  honourable,  you're  sincere.  I  could  see 
it  in  your  face,  in  your  eyes.  I  knew  I  could  trust 
you.  You've  been  kindness  itself  to  grandfather  and 
1,  and  I  never  can  thank  you  enough." 

"Nonsense!  Don't  talk  of  thanks,  Berna.  You 
don't  know  what  a  happiness  it's  been  to  help  you. 
I'm  sorry  I've  done  so  little.  Oh,  I'm  going  to  be 
sincere  and  frank  with  you.  The  few  hours  I've 
had  with  you  have  made  me  long  for  others.  I'm 
a  lonely  beggar.  I  never  had  a  sister,  never  a  girl 
friend.  You're  the  first,  and  it's  been  like  sudden 
sunshine  to  me.  Now,  can't  I  be  really  and  truly 
your  friend,  Berna;  your  friend  that  would  do  much 
for  you?  Let  me  do  something,  anything,  to  show 
how  earnestly  I  mean  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Well,  then,  you  are  my  dear,  true 
friend — there,  now." 

"  Yes, — but,  Berna !  To-morrow  you'll  go  and 
we'll  likely  never  see  each  other  again.  What's  the 
good  of  it  all?  " 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?  We  will  both  have 
a  memory,  a  very  sweet,  nice  memory,  won't  we? 
Believe  me,  it's  better  so.     You  don't  want  to  have 


78  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

anything  to  do  with  a  girl  like  me.  You  don't  know 
anything  about  me,  and  you  see  the  kind  of  people 
I'm  going  with.     Perhaps  I  am  just  as  bad  as  they." 

"Don't  say  that,  Berna,"  I  interposed  sternly; 
"  you're  all  that's  good  and  pure  and  sweet." 

"  No,  I'm  not,  either.  We're  all  of  us  pretty 
mixed.  But  I'm  not  so  bad,  and  it's  nice  of  you  to 
think  those  things.  ,  .  .  Oh!  if  I  had  never  come 
on  this  terrible  trip !  I  don't  even  know  where  we 
are  going,  and  I'm  afraid,  afraid." 

"  No,  little  girl." 

"  Yes,  I  can't  tell  you  how  afraid  I  am.  The 
country's  so  savage  and  lonely;  the  men  are  so  like 
brute  beasts;  the  women — well,  they're  worse.  And 
here  are  we  in  the  midst  of  it.  I  don't  know  what's 
going  to  become  of  us." 

"  Well,  Berna,  if  it's  like  that,  why  don't  you  and 
your  grandfather  turn  back?     Why  go  on?" 

"  He  will  never  turn  back.  He'll  go  on  till  he 
dies.  He  only  knows  one  word  of  English  and 
that's  Klondike,  Klondike.  He  mutters  it  a  thou- 
sand times  a  day.  He  has  visions  of  gold,  glittering 
heaps  of  it,  and  he'll  stagger  and  struggle  on  till  he 
finds  it." 

"  But  can't  you  reason  with  him?  " 

"  Oh,  It's  all  no  use.  He's  had  a  dream.  He's 
like  a  man  that's  crazy.  He  thinks  he  has  been 
chosen,  and  that  to  him  will  a  great  treasure  be  re- 
vealed. You  might  as  well  reason  with  a  stone. 
All  I  can  do  is  to  follow  him.  Is  to  take  care  of 
him." 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  79 

'*  What  about  the  Winklesteins,  Berna?  " 

"  Oh,  they're  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  It  is  they 
who  have  inflamed  his  mind.  He  has  a  little  money, 
the  savings  of  a  lifetime,  about  two  thousand  dol- 
lars ;  and  ever  since  he  came  to  this  country,  they've 
been  trying  to  get  it.  They  ran  a  little  restaurant 
in  New  York.  They  tried  to  get  him  to  put  his 
little  store  in  that.  Now  they  are  using  the  gold  as 
a  bait,  and  luring  him  up  here.  They'll  rob  and  kill 
him  in  the  end,  and  the  cruel  part  is — he's  not 
greedy,  he  doesn't  want  it  for  himself — but  for  me. 
That's  what  breaks  my  heart." 

"Surely  you're  mistaken,  Berna;  they  can't  be  so 
bad  as  that." 

"  Bad !  I  tell  you  they're  vile.  The  man's  a 
worm,  and  the  woman,  she's  a  devil  incarnate.  She's 
so  strong  and  so  violent  in  her  tempers  that  when  she 
gets  drinking — well,  it's  just  av/ful.  I  should  knov/ 
it,  I  lived  with  them  for  three  years." 

"Where?" 

*'  In  New  York.  I  came  from  the  old  country 
to  them.  They  worked  me  in  the  restaurant  at  first. 
Then,  after  a  bit,  I  got  employment  in  a  shirt-waist 
factory.  I  was  quick  and  handy,  and  I  worked  early 
and  late.  I  attended  a  night  school.  I  read  till 
my  eyes  ached.  They  said  I  was  clever.  The 
teacher  wanted  me  to  train  and  be  a  teacher  too. 
But  what  was  the  good  of  thinking  of  it?  I  had  my 
living  to  get,  so  I  stayed  at  the  factory  and  worked 
and  worked.  Then  when  I  had  saved  a  few  dol- 
lars,  I  sent  for  grandfather,  and  he  came  and  we 


8o  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

lived  In  the  tenement  and  were  very  happy  for  a 
while.  But  the  WInklestelns  never  gave  us  any 
peace.  They  knew  he  had  a  little  money  laid  away, 
and  they  Itched  to  get  their  hands  on  It.  The  man 
was  always  telling  us  of  get-rlch-quick  schemes,  and 
she  threatened  me  In  horrible  ways.  But  I  wasn't 
afraid  In  New  York.  Up  here  It's  different.  It's 
all  so  shadowy  and  sinister." 

I  could  feel  her  shudder. 

''  Oh,  Berna,"  I  said,  "  can't  I  help  you?  " 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  No,  you  can't ;  you  have  enough  trouble  of  your 
own.  Besides  It  doesn't  matter  about  me.  I  didn't 
mean  to  tell  you  all  this,  but  now,  If  you  want  to  be 
a  true  friend,  just  go  away  and  forget  me.  You 
don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  Wait ! 
I'll  tell  you  something  more.  I'm  called  Berna 
Wllovich.  That's  my  grandfather's  name.  My 
mother  ran  away  from  home.  Two  years  later  she 
came  back — with  me.  Soon  after  she  died  of  con- 
sumption. She  would  never  tell  my  father's  name, 
but  said  he  was  a  Christian,  and  of  good  family. 
My  grandfather  tried  to  find  out.  He  would  have 
killed  the  man.  So,  you  see,  I  am  nameless,  a  child 
of  shame  and  sorrow.  And  you  are  a  gentleman, 
and  proud  of  your  family.  Now,  see  the  kind  of 
friend  you've  made.  You  don't  want  to  make 
friends  with  such  as  I." 

"  I  want  to  make  friends  with  such  as  need  my 
friendship.  What  is  going  to  happen  to  you, 
Berna?" 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  8i 

"Happen!  God  knows!  It  doesn't  matter.  Oh, 
I've  always  been  in  trouble.  I'm  used  to  it.  I  never 
had  a  really  happy  day  in  my  life.  I  never  expect  to. 
I'll  just  go  on  to  the  end,  enduring  patiently,  and 
getting  what  comfort  I  can  out  of  things.  It's  what 
I  was  made  for,  I  suppose." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  shivered  a  little. 

"Let  me  go  now,  my  friend.  It's  cold  up  here; 
I'm  chilled.  Don't  look  so  terribly  downcast.  I  ex- 
pect I'll  come  out  all  right.  Something  may  happen. 
Cheer  up !  Maybe  you'll  see  me  a  Klondike  queen 
yet." 

I  could  see  that  her  sudden  brightness  but  hid  a 
black  abyss  of  bitterness  and  apprehension.  What 
she  had  told  me  had  somehow  stricken  me  dumb. 
There  seemed  a  stark  sordidness  in  the  situation  that 
repelled  me.  She  had  arisen  and  was  about  to  step 
over  the  fluke  of  the  great  anchor,  when  I  aroused 
myself. 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  what  you  have  told  me  wrings 
my  heart.  I  can't  tell  you  how  terribly  sorry  I  feel. 
Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  nothing  to  show 
I  am  not  a  mere  friend  of  words  and  phrases?  Oh, 
I  hate  to  let  you  go  like  this." 

The  moon  had  gone  behind  a  cloud.  We  were  in 
a  great  shadow.  She  halted,  so  that,  as  we  stood, 
we  were  touching  each  other.  Her  voice  was  full  of 
pathetic  resignation. 

"What  can  you  do?  If  we  were  going  in  to- 
gether it  might  be  different.  When  I  met  you  at 
first  I  hoped,  oh,  I  hoped — well,  it  doesn't  matter 


82  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

what  I  hoped.  But,  believe  me,  I'll  be  all  right. 
lYou  .won't  forget  me,  will  you?  " 

"  Forget  you !  No,  Berna,  I'll  never  forget  you. 
It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  I  can  do  nothing  now,  but 
we'll  meet  up  there.  We  can't  be  divided  for  long. 
And  you'll  be  all  right,  believe  me  too,  little  girl. 
Be  good  and  sweet  and  true  and  every  one  will  love 
and  help  you.  Ah,  you  must  go.  Well,  well — God 
bless  you,  Berna." 

"  And  I  wish  you  happiness  and  success,  dear 
friend  of  mine." 

Her  voice  trembled.  Something  seemed  to  choke 
her.     She  stood  a  moment  as  if  reluctant  to  go. 

Suddenly  a  great  impulse  of  tenderness  and  pity 
came  over  me,  and  before  I  knew  it,  my  arms  were 
around  her.  She  struggled  faintly,  but  her  face  was 
uplifted,  her  eyes  starlike.  Then,  for  a  moment 
of  bewildering  ecstasy,  her  lips  lay  on  mine,  and  I 
felt  them  faintly  answer. 

Poor  yielding  lips !     They  were  cold  as  ice. 


CHAPTER  V 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  last  I  saw  of  her,  a  forlorn, 
pathetic  figure  In  black,  waving  a  farewell  to  me  as 
I  stood  on  the  wharf.  She  wore,  I  remember,  a  low 
collar,  and  well  do  I  mind  the  way  It  showed  off  the 
slim  whiteness  of  her  throat;  well  do  I  mind  the 
high  poise  of  her  head,  and  the  silken  gloss  of  her 
hair.  The  grey  eyes  were  clear  and  steady  as  she 
bade  good-bye  to  me,  and  from  where  we  stood 
apart,  her  face  had  all  the  pathetic  sweetness  of  a 
Madonna. 

Well,  she  was  going,  and  sad  enough  her  going 
seemed  to  me.  They  were  all  for  Dyea,  and  the  grim 
old  Chllcoot,  with  its  blizzard-beaten  steeps,  while 
we  had  chosen  the  less  precipitous,  but  more  drawn- 
out,  Skagway  trail.  Among  them  I  saw  the  insep- 
arable twins;  the  grim  Hewson,  the  silent  Mervin, 
each  quiet  and  watchful,  as  if  storing  up  power  for 
/  a  tremendous  effort.  There  was  the  large  unwhole- 
someness  of  Madam  Winklestein,  all  jewellery, 
smiles  and  coarse  badinage,  and  near  her,  her  per- 
fumed husband,  squinting  and  smirking  abominably. 
There  was  the  old  man,  with  his  face  of  a  Hebrew 
Seer,  his  visionary  eye  now  aglow  with  fanatical  en- 
thusiasm, his  lips  ever  muttering:  "  Klondike,  Klon- 
dike ";  and  lastly,  by  his  side,  with  a  little  wry  smile 
on  her  lips,  there  was  the  white-faced  girl. 

S3 


84  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

How  my  heart  ached  for  her!  But  the  time  for 
sentiment  was  at  an  end.  The  clarion  call  to  action 
rang  out.  Inflexibly  the  trail  was  mustering  us. 
The  hour  was  come  for  every  one  to  give  of  the  best 
that  was  in  him,  even  as  he  had  never  given  it  before. 
The  reign  of  peace  was  over;  the  fight  was  on. 

On  all  sides  were  indescribable  bustle,  confusion 
and  excitement;  men  shouting,  swearing,  rushing 
hither,  thither;  wrangling,  anxious-eyed  and  dis- 
tracted over  their  outfits.  A  mood  of  unsparing  en- 
ergy dominated  them.  Their  only  thought  was  to 
get  away  on  the  gold-trail.  A  frantic  eagerness  im- 
pelled them;  insistent,  imperative;  the  trail  called  to 
them,  and  the  light  of  the  gold-lust  smouldered  and 
flamed  in  their  uneasy  eyes.  Already  the  spirit  of 
the  gold-trail  was  awakening. 

Hundreds  of  scattered  tents;  a  few  frame  build- 
ings, mostly  saloons,  dance-halls  and  gambling  joints; 
an  eager,  excited  mob  crowding  on  the  loose  side- 
walks, floundering  knee-deep  In  the  mire  of  the 
streets,  struggling  and  squabbling  and  cursing  over 
their  outfits — that  is  all  I  remember  of  Skagway. 
The  mountains,  stark  and  bare  to  the  bluff,  seemed  to 
overwhelm  the  flimsy  town,  and  between  them,  like 
a  giant  funnel,  a  great  wind  was  roaring. 

Lawlessness  was  rampant,  but  it  did  not  touch  us. 
The  thugs  lay  in  wait  for  the  men  with  pokes  from 
the  *'  inside."  To  the  great  Cheechako  army,  they 
gave  little  heed.  They  were  captained  by  one 
Smith,  known  as  "  Soapy,"  whom  I  had  the  fortune 
to  meet.     He    was    a    pleasant-appearing,    sociable 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  85 

man,  and  no  one  would  have  taken  him  for  a  des- 
perado, a  killer  of  men. 

One  picture  of  Skagway  is  still  vivid  in  my  memory. 
The  scene  is  a  saloon,  and  along  with  the  Prodigal, 
I  am  having  a  glass  of  beer.  In  a  corner  sits  a  be- 
fuddled old  man,  half  asleep.  He  is  long  and  lank, 
with  a  leathery  face  and  a  rusty  goatee  beard — 
as  ragged,  disreputable  an  old  sinner  as  ever  bellied 
up  to  a  bar.  Suddenly  there  is  a  sound  of  shooting. 
We  rush  out  and  there  are  two  toughs  blazing  away 
at  each  other  from  the  sheltering  corners  of  an  oppo- 
site building. 

"Hey,  Dad!  There's  some  shootin'  goin'  on," 
says  the  barkeeper. 

The  old  man  rouses  and  cocks  up  a  bleary,  benev- 
olent eye. 

"Shooting',  did' ye  say?  Pshaw!  Them  fellers 
don't  know  how  to  shoot.  Old  Dad'll  show  'em  how 
to  shoot." 

He  comes  to  the  door,  and  lugging  out  a  big  rusty 
revolver,  blazes  away  at  one  of  the  combatants.  The 
man,  with  a  howl  of  surprise  and  pain,  limps  away. 
The  old  man  turns  to  the  other  fellow.  Bang! 
We  see  splinters  fly,  and  a  man  running  for  dear 
life. 

*'  Told  you  I'd  show  'em  how  to  shoot,"  remarks 
old  Dad  to  us.  "  Thanks,  I'll  have  a  gin-fizz  for 
mine." 

The  Prodigal  developed  a  wonderful  executive 
ability  about  this  time;  he  was  a  marvel  of  activity, 
seemed  to  think  of  everything  and  to  glory  in  his 


86  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

responsibility  as  a  leader.  Always  cheerful,  always 
thoughtful,  he  was  the  brains  of  our  party.  He  never 
abated  in  his  efforts  a  moment,  and  was  an  example 
and  a  stimulus  to  us  all.  I  say  "  all,"  for  we  had 
added  the  "  Jam-wagon  "  *  to  our  number.  It  was 
the  Prodigal  who  discovered  him.  He  was  a  tall,  dis- 
solute Englishman,  gaunt,  ragged  and  verminous, 
but  with  the  earmarks  of  a  gentleman.  He  seemed 
indifferent  to  everything  but  whiskey  and  only  anxious 
to  hide  himself  from  his  friends.  I  discovered  he 
had  once  been  an  officer  in  a  Hussar  regiment,  but 
he  was  obviously  reluctant  to  speak  of  his  past.  A 
lost  soul  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  the  North  was 
to  him  a  refuge  and  an  unrestricted  stamping-ground. 
So,  partly  in  pity,  partly  in  hope  of  winning  back  his 
manhood,  we  allowed  him  to  join  the  party. 

Pack  animals  were  in  vast  demand,  for  it  was 
considered  a  pound  of  grub  was  the  equal  of  a  pound 
of  gold.  Old  horses,  fit  but  for  the  knacker's  yard, 
and  burdened  till  they  could  barely  stand,  were  be- 
ing goaded  forward  through  the  mud.  Any  kind  of 
a  dog  was  a  prize,  quickly  stolen  if  left  unwatched. 
Sheep  being  taken  in  for  the  butcher  were  driven 
forward  with  packs  on  their  backs.  Even  was  there 
an  effort  to  make  pack  animals  out  of  pigs,  but  they 
grunted,  squealed  and  rolled  their  precious  burdens 
in  the  mire.  What  crazy  excitement,  what  urging 
and  shouting,  what  desperate  device  to  make  a  start ! 

We  were  lucky  in  buying  a  yoke  of  oxen  from  a 

*A  Jam-wagon  was  the  general  name  given  to  an  Englishman 
on  the  trail. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  87 

packer  for  four  hundred  dollars.  On  the  first  day 
we  hauled  half  of  our  outfit  to  Canyon  City,  and  on 
the  second  we  transferred  the  balance.  This  was 
our  plan  all  through,  though  in  bad  places  we  had  to 
make  many  relays.  It  was  simple  enough,  yet,  oh, 
the  travail  of  it !  Here  is  an  extract  from  my  diary 
of  these  days. 

"Turn  out  at  4  a.m.  Breakfasted  on  flapjacks  and  cof- 
fee. Find  one  of  our  oxen  dying.  Dies  at  seven  o'clock. 
Harness  remaining  ox  and  start  to  remove  goods  up  Canyon. 
Find  trail  in  awful  condition,  yet  thousands  are  struggling 
to  get  through.  Horses  often  fall  in  pools  of  water  ten  to 
fifteen  feet  deep,  trying  to  haul  loads  over  the  boulders  that 
render  trail  almost  impassable.  Drive  with  sleigh  over  places 
that  at  other  times  one  would  be  afraid  to  walk  over  with- 
out any  load.  Two  feet  of  snow  fell  during  the  night,  but 
it  is  now^  raining.  Rains  and  snows  alternately.  At  night 
bitterly  cold.  Hauled  five  loads  up  Canyon  to-day.  Fin- 
ished last  trip  near  midnight  and  turned  in,  cold,  wet  and 
played  out." 

The  above  is  a  fairly  representative  day  and  of 
such  days  we  were  to  have  many  ere  we  reached  the 
water.  Slowly,  with  infinite  effort,  with  stress  and 
strain  to  every  step  of  the  way,  we  moved  our  bulky 
outfit  forward  from  camp  to  camp.  All  days  were 
hard,  all  exasperating,  all  crammed  with  discomfort; 
yet,  bit  by  bit,  we  forged  ahead.  The  army  before 
us  and  the  army  behind  never  faltered.  Like  a 
stream  of  black  ants  they  were,  between  mountains 
that  reared  up  swiftly  to  storm-smitten  palisades  of 


88  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

ice.  In  the  darkness  of  night  the  army  rested  un- 
easily, yet  at  the  first  streak  of  dawn  it  was  in  mo- 
tion. It  was  an  endless  procession,  in  which  every 
man  was  for  himself.  I  can  see  them  now,  bent  under 
their  burdens,  straining  at  their  hand-sleighs,  flog- 
ging their  horses  and  oxen,  their  faces  crimped  and 
puckered  with  fatigue,  the  air  acrid  with  their  curses 
and  heavy  with  their  moans.  Now  a  horse  stumbles 
and  slips  into  one  of  the  sump-holes  by  the  trail  side. 
No  one  can  pass,  the  army  is  arrested.  Frenzied 
fingers  unhitch  the  poor  frozen  brute  and  drag  it 
from  the  water.  Men,  frantic  with  rage,  beat  sav- 
agely at  their  beasts  of  burden  to  make  up  the 
precious  time  lost.  There  is  no  mercy,  no  humanity, 
no  fellowship.  All  is  blasphemy,  fury  and  ruthless 
determination.     It  is  the  spirit  of  the  gold-trail. 

At  the  canyon  head  was  a  large  camp,  and  there, 
very  much  in  evidence,  the  gambling  fraternity. 
Dozens  of  them  with  their  little  green  tables  were 
doing  a  roaring  business.  On  one  side  of  the  canyon 
they  had  established  a  camp.  It  was  evening  and 
we  three,  the  Prodigal,  Salvation  Jim  and  myself, 
strolled  over  to  where  a  three-shell  man  was  holding 
forth. 

"Hullo!"  says  the  Prodigal.  "It's  our  old 
friend  Jake.  Jake  skinned  me  out  of  a  hundred  on 
the  boat.     Wonder  how  he's  making  out?" 

It  was  Mosher,  with  his  bald  head,  his  crafty  little 
eyes,  his  flat  nose,  his  black  beard.  I  saw  Jim's  face 
harden.  He  had  always  shown  a  bitter  hatred  of 
this  man,  and  often  I  wondered  why. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  89 

We  stood  a  little  way  off.  The  crowd  thinned 
and  filtered  away  until  but  one  remained,  one  of  the 
tali  young  men  from  Minnesota.  We  heard 
Mosher's  rich  voice. 

"  Say,  pard,  bet  ten  dollars  you  can't  place  the 
bean.  See !  I  put  the  little  joker  under  here,  right 
before  your  eyes.     Now,  where  is  it?" 

"  Here,"  said  the  man,  touching  one  of  the  shells. 

*'  Right  you  are,  my  hearty!  Well,  here's  your 
ten." 

The  man  from  Minnesota  took  the  money  and 
was  going  away. 

*'  Hold  on,"  said  Mosher;  "  how  do  I  know  you 
had  the  money  to  cover  that  bet?  " 

The  man  laughed  and  took  from  his  pocket  a  wad 
of  bills  an  inch  thick. 

"Guess  that's  enough,   ain't  it?" 

Quick  as  lightning  Mosher  had  snatched  the  bills 
from  him,  and  the  man  from  Minnesota  found  him- 
self gazing  into  the  barrel  of  a  six-shooter. 

"This  here's  my  money,"  said  Mosher;  "now 
you  git/' 

A  moment  only — a  shot  rang  out.  I  saw  the  gun 
fall  from  Mosher's  hand,  and  the  roll  of  bills  drop 
to  the  ground.  Quickly  the  man  from  Minnesota 
recovered  them  and  rushed  off  to  tell  his  party. 
Then  the  men  from  Minnesota  got  their  Winchesters, 
and  the  shooting  began. 

From  their  camp  the  gamblers  took  refuge  behind 
the  boulders  that  strewed  the  sides  of  the  canyon, 
and   blazed   away   at   their   opponents.     A   regular 


90  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

battle  followed,  which  lasted  till  the  fall  of  night. 
As  far  as  I  heard,  only  one  casualty  resulted.  A 
Swede,  about  half  a  mile  down  the  trail,  received 
a  spent  bullet  in  the  cheek.  He  complained  to  the 
Deputy  Marshal.  That  worthy,  sitting  on  his  horse, 
looked  at  him  a  moment.  Then  he  spat  compre- 
hensively. 

"  Can't  do  anything,  Ole.  But  I'll  tell  you  what. 
Next  time  there's  bullets  flying  round  this  section  of 
the  country,  don't  go  sticking  your  darned  whiskers 
in  the  way.     See!  " 

That  night  I  said  to  Jim: 

"How  did  you  do  it?" 

He  laughed  and  showed  me  a  hole  in  his  coat 
pocket  which  a  bullet  had  burned. 

"  You  see,  having  been  in  the  game  myself,  I 
knew  what  was  comin'  and  acted  accordin'." 

"  Good  job  you  didn't  hit  him  worse." 

"  Wait  a  while,  sonny,  wait  a  while.  There's 
something  mighty  familiar  about  Jake  Mosher. 
He's  mighty  like  a  certain  Sam  Mosely  I'm  interested 
in.  I've  just  written  a  letter  outside  to  see,  an'  if 
it's  him — well,  I'm  saved;  I'm  a  good  Christian, 
but — God  help  him  !  " 

"And  who  was  Sam  Mosely,  Jim?  " 

"  Sam  Mosely?  Sam  Mosely  was  the  skunk  that 
busted  up  my  home  an'  stole  my  wife,  blast  him!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

Day  after  day,  each  man  of  us  poured  out  on  the 
trail  the  last  heel-tap  of  his  strength,  and  the  com- 
ing of  night  found  us  utterly  played  out.  Salvation 
Jim  was  full  of  device  and  resource,  the  Prodigal, 
a  dynamo  of  eager  energy;  but  it  was  the  Jam- 
wagon  who  proved  his  mettle  in  a  magnificent  and 
relentless  way.  Whether  it  was  from  a  sense  of 
gratitude,  or  to  offset  the  cravings  that  assailed  him, 
I  know  not,  but  he  crammed  the  days  with  merciless 
exertion. 

A  curious  man  was  the  Jam-wagon,  Brian  Wanless 
his  name,  a  world  tramp,  a  derelict  of  the  Seven 
Seas.  His  story,  if  ever  written,  would  be  a  human 
document  of  moving  and  poignant  interest.  He 
must  once  have  been  a  magnificent  fellow,  and  even 
now,  with  strength  and  will-power  impaired,  he  was 
a  man  among  men,  full  of  quick  courage  and  of  a 
haughty  temper.  It  was  ever  a  word  and  a  blow 
with  him,  and  a  fight  to  the  desperate  finish.  He 
was  insular,  imperious  and  aggressive,  and  he  was 
always  looking  for  trouble. 

Though  taciturn  and  morose  with  men,  the  Jam- 
wagon  showed  a  tireless  affection  for  animals. 
From  the  first  he  took  charge  of  our  ox;  but  it  was 
for  horses  his  fondness  was  most  expressed,  so  that 
on  the  trail,  where  there  was  so  much  cruelty,  he 
was  constantly  on  the  verge  of  combat. 

91 


92  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  That's  a  great  man,"  said  the  Prodigal  to  me, 
"  a  fighter  from  heel  to  head.  There's  one  he  can't 
fight,  though,  and  that's  old  man  Booze." 

But  on  the  trail  every  man  was  a  fighter.  It  was 
fight  or  fall,  for  the  trail  would  brook  no  weaklings. 
Good  or  bad,  a  man  must  be  a  man  in  the  primal 
sense,  dominant,  savage  and  enduring.  The  trail 
was  Implacable.  From  the  start  It  cried  for  strong 
men;  It  weeded  out  its  weaklings.  I  had  seen  these 
fellows  on  the  ship  feed  their  vanity  with  foolish 
fancies;  kindled  to  ardours  of  hope,  I  had  seen  de- 
bauch regnant  among  them;  now  I  was  to  see  them 
crushed,  cowed,  overwhelmed,  realising  each,  accord- 
ing to  his  kind,  the  menace  and  antagonism  of  the 
way.  I  was  to  see  the  weak  falter  and  fall  by  the 
trail  side;  I  was  to  see  the  faint-hearted  quail  and 
turn  back;  but  I  was  to  see  the  strong,  the  brave, 
grow  grim,  grow  elemental  in  their  desperate 
strength,  and  tightening  up  their  belts,  go  forward 
unflinchingly  to  the  bitter  end.  Thus  it  was  the 
trail  chose  her  own.  Thus  It  was,  from  passion, 
despair  and  defeat,  the  spirit  of  the  trail  was  born. 

The  spirit  of  the  Gold  Trail,  how  shall  I  describe 
it?  It  was  based  on  that  primal  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  that  underlies  our  thin  veneer  of  hu- 
manity. It  was  rebellion,  anarchy;  it  was  ruthless, 
aggressive,  primitive;  it  was  the  man  of  the  -stone 
age  In  modern  garb  waging  his  fierce.  Incessant  war- 
fare with  the  forces  of  nature.  Spurred  on  by  the 
fever  of  the  gold-lust,  goaded  by  the  fear  of  losing 
in  the   race;   maddened  by  the   difficulties   and  ob- 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  93 

stacks  of  the  way,  men  became  demons  of  cruelty 
and  aggression,  ruthlessly  thrusting  aside  and  tram- 
pling down  the  weaker  ones  who  thwarted  their  prog- 
ress. Of  pity,  humanity,  love,  there  was  none,  only 
the  gold-lust,  triumphant  and  repellent.  It  was  the 
survival  of  the  fittest,  the  most  tenacious,  the  most 
brutal.  Yet  there  was  something  grandly  terrible 
about  it  all.  It  was  a  barbaric  invasion,  an  army, 
each  man  fighting  for  his  own  hand  under  the  banner 
of  gold.  It  was  conquest.  Every  day,  as  I  watched 
that  human  torrent,  I  realised  how  vast,  how  irre- 
sistible it  was.     It  was  Epic,  it  was  Historical. 

Many  pitiful  things  I  saw — men  with  haggard, 
hopeless  faces,  throwing  their  outfits  into  the  snow 
and  turning  back  broken-hearted;  men  staggering 
blindly  on,  exhausted  to  despair,  then  dropping  wear- 
ily by  the  trail  side  in  the  bitter  cold  and  minister 
gloom;  weaklings,  every  one.  Many  terrible  things 
I  saw — men  cursing  each  other,  cursing  the  trail, 
cursing  their  God,  and  in  the  echo  of  their  curses, 
grinding  their  teeth  and  stumbling  on.  Then  they 
would  vent  their  fury  and  spite  on  the  poor  dumb 
animals.  Oh,  what  cruelty  there  was !  The  life  of 
the  brute  was  as  nothing;  it  was  the  tribute  of  the 
trail;  it  was  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  human  greed. 

Long  before  dawn  the  trail  awakened  and  the  air 
was  full  of  breakfast  smells,  chiefly  that  of  burnt 
porridge :  for  pots  were  seldom  scraped,  neither  were 
dishes  washed.  Soon  the  long-drawn-out  army  was 
on  the  march,  jaded  animals  straining  at  their  loads, 
their   drivers   reviling   and   beating   them.     All   the 


94 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 


men  were  bearded,  and  many  of  them  wore  parkas. 
As  many  of  the  women  had  discarded  petticoats,  it 
was  often  difficult  at  a  short  distance  to  tell  the  sex 
of  a  person.  There  were  tents  built  on  sleighs,  with 
faces  of  women  and  children  peering  out  from  be- 
hind. It  was  a  wonderful  procession,  all  classes,  all 
nationalities,  greybeards  and  striplings,  parsons  and 
prostitutes,  rich  and  poor,  filing  past  in  their  thou- 
sands, drawn  desperately  on  by  the  golden  magnet. 

One  day  we  were  making  a  trip  with  a  load  of 
our  stuff  when,  just  ahead,  there  was  a  check  in  the 
march,  so  I  and  the  Jam-wagon  went  forward  to 
investigate.  It  was  our  old  friend  Bullhammer  in 
difficulties.  He  had  rather  a  fine  horse,  and  in  pass- 
ing a  sump-hole,  his  sled  had  skidded  and  slipped 
■  downhill  into  the  water.  Now  he  was  belabouring 
the  animal  unmercifully,  acting  like  a  crazy  man, 
shouting  in  a  frenzy  of  rage. 

The  horse  was  making  the  most  gallant  efforts  I 
ever  saw,  but,  with  every  fresh  attempt,  its  strength 
weakened.  Time  and  again  it  came  down  on  its 
knees,  which  were  raw  and  bleeding.  It  was  shining 
with  sweat  so  that  there  was  not  a  dry  hair  on  its 
body,  and  if  ever  a  dumb  brute's  eyes  spoke  of  agony 
and  fear,  that  horse's  did.  But  Bullhammer  grew 
every  moment  more  infuriated,  wrenching  its  mouth 
and  beating  it  over  the  head  with  a  club.  It  was  a 
sickening  sight  and,  used  as  I  was  to  the  inhumanity 
of  the  trail,  I  would  have  interfered  had  not  the 
Jam-wagon  jumped  in.  He  was  deadly  pale  and  his 
eyes  burned. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  95 

"You  infernal  brute!  If  you  strike  that  horse 
another  blow,  I'll  break  your  club  over  your  shoul- 
ders." 

Bullhammer  turned  on  him.  Surprise  paralysed 
the  man,  rage  choked  him.  They  were  both  big 
husky  fellows,  and  they  drew  up  face  to  face.  Then 
Bullhammer  spoke. 

"  Curse  you,  anyway.  Don't  interfere  with  me. 
I'll  beat  bloody  hell  out  of  the  horse  if  I  like,  an* 
you  won't  say  one  word,  see?  " 

With  that  he  struck  the  horse  another  vicious  blow 
on  the  head.  There  was  a  quick  scuffle.  The  club 
was  wrenched  from  Bullhammer's  hand.  I  saw  it 
come  down  twice.  The  man  sprawled  on  his  back, 
while  over  him  stood  the  Jam-wagon,  looking  very 
grim.     The  horse  slipped  quietly  back  into  the  water. 

"  You  ugly  blackguard !  I've  a  good  mind  to  beat 
you  within  an  ace  of  your  life.  But  you're  not  worth 
it.     Ah,  you  cur!  " 

He  gave  Bullhammer  a  kick.  The  man  got  on 
his  feet.  He  was  a  coward,  but  his  pig  eyes  squinted 
in  impotent  rage.  He  looked  at  his  horse  lying 
shivering  in  the  icy  water. 

"  Get  the  horse  out  yourself,  then,  curse  you. 
Do  what  you  please  with  him.  But,  mark  you — I'll 
get  even  with  you  for  this — I'll — get — even." 

He  shook  his  fist  and,  with  an  ugly  oath,  went 
away.  The  block  in  the  traffic  was  relieved.  The 
trail  was  again  in  motion.  When  we  got  abreast 
of  the  submerged  horse,  we  hitched  on  the  ox  and 
hastily,  pulled  it  out,  and    (the  Jam-wagon  proving 


96  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

to  have  no  little  veterinary  skill)    in  a  few  days  it 

was  fit  to  work  again. 

****** 

Another  week  had  gone  and  we  were  still  on  the 
trail,  between  the  head  of  the  canyon  and  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Pass.  Day  after  day  was  the  same  round 
of  unflinching  effort,  under  conditions  that  would 
daunt  any  but  the  stoutest  hearts.  The  trail  was 
in  a  terrible  condition,  sometimes  well-nigh  impass- 
able, and  many  a  time,  but  for  the  Invincible  spirit 
of  the  Prodigal,  would  I  have  turned  back.  He 
had  a  way  of  laughing  at  misfortune  and  heartening 
one  when  things  seemed  to  have  passed  the  limit  of 
all   endurance. 

Here  is  another  day  selected  from  my  diary: 

"Rose  at  4:30  a.m.  and  started  for  summit  with  load. 
Trail  all  filled  in  with  snow,  and  had  dreadful  time  shovel- 
ling it  out.  Lx)ad  upsets  number  of  times.  Got  to  summit 
at  three  o'clock.  Ox  almost  played  out.  Snowing  and 
blowing  fearfully  on  summit.  Ox  tired;  tries  to  lie  down 
every  few  yards.  Bitterly  cold  and  have  hard  time  trying 
to  keep  hands  and  feet  from  freezing.  Keep  on  going  to 
make  Balsam  City.  Arrived  there  about  ten  o'clock  at 
night.  Clothing  frozen  stiff.  Snow  from  seven  to  one  hun- 
dred feet  deep.  No  wood  within  a  quarter  mile  and  then 
only  soft  balsam.  Had  to  go  for  wood.  Almost  impossible 
to  start  fire.  Was  near  midnight  when  I  had  fire  going 
well  and  supper  cooked.  Eighteen  hours  on  the  trail  with- 
out a  square  meal.    The  way  of  the  Klondike  is  hard,  hard." 

And  yet  I  believe,  compared  with  others,  we  were 
getting  along  finely.     Every  day,  as  the  difficulties 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  97 

of  the  trail  Increased,  I  saw  more  and  more  instances 
of  suffering  and  privation,  and  to  many  the  name  of 
the  White  Pass  was  the  death-knell  of  hope.  I  could 
see  their  faces  blanch  as  they  gazed  upward  at  that 
white  immensity;  I  could  see  them  tighten  their  pack- 
straps,  clench  their  teeth  and  begin  the  ascent;  could 
see  them  straining  every  muscle  as  they  climbed,  the 
grim  lines  harden  round  their  mouths,  their  eyes 
full  of  hopeless  misery  and  despair;  I  could  see  them 
panting  at  every  step,  ghastly  with  fatigue,  lurching 
and  stumbling  on  under  their  heavy  packs.  These 
were  the  weaker  ones,  who,  sooner  or  later,  gave  up 
the  struggle. 

Then  there  were  the  strong,  ruthless  ones,  who 
had  left  humanity  at  home,  who  flogged  their  stag- 
gering skin-and-bone  pack  animals  till  they  dropped, 
then,  with  a  curse,  left  them  to  die. 

Far,  far  above  us  the  monster  mountains  nuzzled 
among  the  clouds  till  cloud  and  mountain  were  hard 
to  tell  apart.  These  were  giant  heights  heaved  up 
to  the  stars,  where  blizzards  were  cradled  and  the 
storm-winds  born,  stupendous  horrific  familiars  of 
the  tempest  and  the  thunder.  I  was  conscious  of 
their  absolute  sublimity.  It  was  like  height  piled  on 
height  as  one  would  pile  up  sacks  of  flour.  As  Jim 
remarked:  "Say,  wouldn't  It  give  you  crick  in  the 
neck  just  gazin'  at  them  there  mountains?  " 

How  ant-like  seemed  the  black  army  crawling  up 
the  icy  pass,  clinging  to  its  slippery  face  in  the  blind- 
ing buffet  of  snow  and  rain !  Men  dropped  from  Its 
ranks  uncared  for  and  unpitied.     Heedless  of  those 


98  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

that  fell,  the  gap  closed  up,  the  march  went  on.  The 
great  army  crawled  up  and  over  the  summit.  Far 
behind  could  we  see  them,  hundreds,  thousands,  a 
countless  host,  all  with  "  Klondike  "  on  their  lips 
and  the  lust  of  the  gold-lure  in  their  hearts.  It  was 
the  Great  Stampede. 

"  Klondike  or  bust,"  was  the  slogan.  It  was 
ever  on  the  lips  of  those  bearded  men.  "  Klondike 
or  bust  " — the  strong  man,  with  infinite  patience, 
righted  his  overturned  sleigh,  and  in  the  face  of  the 
blinding  blizzard,  pushed  on  through  the  clogging 
snow.  "  Klondike  or  bust  " — the  weary,  trail-worn 
one  raised  himself  from  the  hole  where  he  had 
fallen,  and  stiff,  cold,  racked  with  pain,  gritted  his 
teeth  doggedly  and  staggered  on  a  few  feet  more. 
"  Klondike  or  bust  " — the  fanatic  of  the  trail,  crazed 
with  the  gold-lust,  performed  mad  feats  of  endur- 
ance, till  nature  rebelled,  and  raving  and  howling,  he 
was  carried  away  to  die. 

"  'Member  Joe?  "  some  one  would  say,  as  a  pack- 
horse  came  down  the  trail  with,  strapped  on  it,  a 
dead,  rigid  shape.  "  Joe  used  to  be  plumb-full  of 
fun;  always  joshin'  or  takin'  some  guy  off;  well — 
that's  Joe." 

Two  weary,  woe-begone  men  were  pulling  a  hand- 
sleigh  down  from  the  summit.  On  it  was  lashed  a 
man.  He  was  in  a  high  fever,  raving,  delirious. 
Half-crazed  with  suffering  themselves,  his  partners 
plodded  on  unheedingly.  I  recognised  in  them  the 
Bank  clerk  and  the  Professor,  and  I  hailed  them. 
From  black  hollows  their  eyes  stared  at  me  unre- 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  99 

memberingly,  and  I  saw  how  emaciated  were  their 
faces. 

"  Spinal  meningitis,"  they  said  laconically,  and 
they  were  taking  him  down  to  the  hospital,  I  took 
a  look  and  saw  in  that  mask  of  terror  and  agony 
the  familiar  face  of  the  Wood-carver. 

He  gazed  at  me  eagerly,  wildly:  "  I'm  rich,"  he 
cried,  "  rich.  I've  found  it — the  gold — In  millions, 
millions.  Now  I'm  going  outside  to  spend  it.  No 
more  cold  and  suffering  and  poverty.  I'm  going 
down  there  to  live,  thank  God,  to  live." 

Poor  Globstock!  He  died  down  there.  He  was 
buried  in  a  nameless  grave.  To  this  day  I  fancy  his 
old  mother  waits  for  his  return.  He  was  her  sole 
support,  the  one  thing  she  lived  for,  a  good,  gentle 
son,  a  man  of  sweet  simplicity  and  loving  kindness. 
Yet  he  lies  under  the  shadow  of  those  hard-visaged 
mountains  in  a  nameless  grave. 

The  trail  must  have  its  tribute. 


CHAPTER  VII 

It  was  at  Balsam  City,  and  things  were  going  badly. 
Marks  and  BuUhammer  had  formed  a  partnership 
with  the  Halfbreed,  the  Professor  and  the  Bank  clerk, 
and  the  arrangement  was  proving  a  regrettable  one 
for  the  latter  two.  It  was  all  due  to  Marks.  At 
the  best  of  times,  he  was  a  cross-grained,  domineer- 
ing bully,  and  on  the  trail,  which  would  have  worn 
to  a  wire  edge  the  temper  of  an  angel,  his  yellow 
streak  became  an  eyesore.  He  developed  a  chronic 
grouch,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  had  the  two 
weaker  men  toeing  the  mark.  He  had  a  way  of 
speaking  of  those  who  had  gone  up  against  him  In 
the  past  and  were  "  running  yet,"  of  shooting  scrapes 
and  deadly  knife-work  in  which  he  had  displayed  a 
spirit  of  cold-blooded  ferocity.  Both  the  Professor 
and  the  Bank  clerk  were  men  of  peace  and  very  Im- 
pressionable. Consequently,  they  conceived  for 
Marks  a  shuddering  respect,  not  unmixed  with  fear, 
and  were  ready  to  stand  on  their  heads  at  his  bidding. 

On  the  Halfbreed,  however,  his  intimidation  did 
not  work.  While  the  other  two  trembled  at  his 
frown,  and  waited  on  him  hand  and  foot,  the  man 
of  Indian  blood  Ignored  him,  and  his  face  was  ex- 
pressionless. Whereby  he  Incurred  the  Intense  dis- 
like of  Marks. 

Things  were  going  from  bad  to  worse.     The  man's 

lOO 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  loi 

aggressions  were  daily  becoming  more  unbearable. 
He  treated  the  others  like  Dagoes  and  on  every  occa- 
sion he  tried  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  the  Halfbreed, 
but  the  latter,  entrenching  himself  behind  his  Indian 
phlegm,  regarded  him  stolidly.  Marks  mistook  this 
for  cowardice  and  took  to  calling  the  Halfbreed 
nasty  names,  particularly  reflecting  on  the  good  char- 
acter of  his  mother.  Still  the  Halfbreed  took  no  no- 
tice, yet  there  was  a  contempt  in  his  manner  that  stung 
more  than  words.  This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when 
one  evening  the  Prodigal  and  I  paid  them  a  visit. 

Marks  had  been  drinking  all  day,  and  had  made 
life  a  little  hell  for  the  others.  When  we  arrived 
he  was  rotten-ripe  for  a  quarrel.  Then  the  Prodigal 
suggested  a  game  of  poker,  so  four  of  them,  him- 
self, Marks,  Bullhammer  and  the  HaltT3reed,  sat  in. 

At  first  they  made  a  ten-cent  limit,  which  soon 
they  raised  to  twenty-five;  then,  at  last,  there  was  no 
limit  but  the  roof.  A  bottle  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth  and  several  big  jack-pots  were  made.  Bull- 
hammer  and  the  Prodigal  were  about  breaking  even, 
Marks  was  losing  heavily,  while  steadily  the  Half- 
breed was  adding  to  his  pile  of  chips. 

Through  one  of  those  freaks  of  chance  the  two 
men  seemed  to  buck  one  another  continually.  Time 
after  time  they  would  raise  and  raise  each  other,  till 
at  last  Marks  would  call,  and  always  his  opponent 
had  the  cards.  It  was  exasperating,  maddening, 
especially  as  several  times  Marks  himself  was  called 
on  a  bluff.  The  very  fiend  of  ill-luck  seemed  to  have 
gotten  into  him,  and  as  the  game  proceeded,  Marks 


I02  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

grew  more  flushed  and  excited.  He  cursed  audibly. 
He  always  had  good  cards,  but  always  somehow  the 
other  just  managed  to  beat  him.  He  became  explo- 
sively angry  and  abusive.  The  Halfbreed  offered 
to  retire  from  the  game,  but  Marks  would  not  hear 
of  it. 

"Come  on,  you  nigger!"  he  shouted.  "Don't 
sneak  away.  Give  me  a  chance  to  get  my  money 
back." 

So  they  sat  down  once  more,  and  a  hand  was 
dealt.  The  Halfbreed  called  for  cards,  but  Marks 
did  not  draw.  Then  the  betting  began.  After  the 
second  round  the  others  dropped  out,  and  Marks 
and  the  Halfbreed  were  left.  The  Halfbreed  was 
inimitably  cool,  his  face  was  a  perfect  mask.  Marks, 
too,  had  suddenly  grown  very  calm.  They  started 
to  boost  each  other. 

Both  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money  and  at  first 
they  raised  in  tens  and  twenties,  then  at  last  fifty 
dollars  at  a  clip.  It  was  getting  exciting.  You  could 
hear  a  pin  drop.  Bullhammer  and  the  Prodigal 
watched  very  quietly.  Sweat  stood  on  Marks's  fore- 
head, though  the  Halfbreed  was  utterly  calm.  The 
jack-pot  held  about  three  hundred  dollars.  Then 
Marks  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"  I'll  bet  a  hundred,"  he  cried,  "  and  see  you." 

He  triumphantly  threw  down  a  straight. 

"  There,  now,"  he  snarled,  "  beat  that,  you  stink- 
ing Malamute." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  I  felt  sorry  for  the 
Halfbreed.     He   could   not   afford   to   lose   all   that 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  103 

money,  but  his  face  showed  no  shade  of  emotion. 
He  threw  down  his  cards  and  there  arose  from  us 
all  a  roar  of  incredulous  surprise. 

For  the  Halfbreed  had  thrown  down  a  royal  flush 
in  diamonds.  Marks  rose.  He  was  now  livid  with 
passion. 

"You  cheating  swine,"  he  cried;  "you  crooked 
devil !  " 

Quickly  he  struck  the  other  on  the  face,  a  blow 
that  drew  blood.  I  thought  for  a  moment  the  Half- 
breed  would  return  the  blow.  Into  his  eyes  there 
came  a  look  of  cold  and  deadly  fury.  But,  no  I 
quickly  bending  down,  he  scooped  up  the  money  and 
left  the  tent. 

We  stared  at  each  other. 

"  Marvellous  luck !  "  said  the  Prodigal. 

"Marvellous  hell!"  shouted  Marks.  "Don't 
tell  me  it's  luck.  He's  a  sharper,  a  dirty  thief.  But 
I'll  get  even.  He's  got  to  fight  now.  He'll  fight 
with  guns  and  I'll  kill  the  son  of  a  dog." 

He  was  drinking  from  the  bottle  in  big  gulps, 
fanning  himself  into  an  ungovernable  fury  with  fiery 
objurgations.  At  last  he  went  out,  and  again  swear- 
ing he  would  kill  the  Halfbreed,  he  made  for  an- 
other tent,  from  which  a  sound  of  revelry  was  coming. 

Vaguely  fearing  trouble,  the  Prodigal  and  I  did 
not  go  to  bed,  but  sat  talking.  Suddenly  I  saw  him 
listen   intently. 

"Hist!      Did  you  hear  that?" 

I  seemed  to  hear  a  sound  like  the  fierce  yelling  of 
a  wild  animal. 


104  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

We  hurried  out.  It  was  Marks  running  towards 
us.  He  was  crazy  with  hquor,  and  in  one  hand  he 
flourished  a  gun.  There  was  foam  on  his  lips  and 
he  screamed  as  he  ran.  Then  we  saw  him  stop 
before  the  tent  occupied  by  the  Halfbreed,  and  throw 
open  the  flap. 

"  Come  out,  you  dirty  tin-horn,  you  crook,  you 
Indian  bastard;  come  out  and  fight." 

He  rushed  in  and  came  out  again,  dragging  the 
Halfbreed  at  arm's  length.  They  were  tussling  to- 
gether, and  we  flung  ourselves  on  them  and  sepa- 
rated them. 

I  was  holding  Marks,  when  suddenly  he  hurled 
me  off,  and  flourishing  a  revolver,  fired  one  chamber, 
crying : 

*'  Stand  back,  all  of  you ;  stand  back !  Let  me 
shoot  at  him.     He's  my  meat." 

We  stepped  back  pretty  briskly,  for  Marks  had 
cut  loose.  In  fact,  we  ducked  for  shelter,  all  but  the 
Halfbreed,  who  stood  straight  and  still. 

Marks  took  aim  at  the  man  waiting  there  so 
coolly.  He  fired,  and  a  tide  of  red  stained  the  other 
man's  shirt,  near  the  shoulder.  Then  something 
happened.  The  Halfbreed's  arm  rose  quickly.  A 
six-shooter  spat  twice. 

He  turned  to  us.  "  I  didn't  want  to  do  it,  boys, 
but  you  see  he  druv'  me  to  it.  I'm  sorry.  He  druv' 
me  to  it." 

Marks  lay  In  a  huddled,  quivering  heap.  He  was 
shot  through  the  heart  and  quite  dead. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

We  were  camping  in  Paradise  Valley.  Before  us 
and  behind  us  the  great  Cheechako  army  laboured 
along  with  infinite  travail.  We  had  suffered,  but 
the  trail  of  the  land  was  near  its  end.  And  what 
an  end !  With  every  mile  the  misery  and  difficulty 
of  the  way  seemed  to  increase.  Then  we  came  to 
the  trail  of  Rotting  Horses. 

Dead  animals  we  had  seen  all  along  the  trail  in 
great  numbers,  but  the  sight  as  we  came  on  this 
particular  place  beggared  description.  There  were 
thousands  of  them.  One  night  we  dragged  away 
six  of  them  before  we  could  find  room  to  put  up  the 
tent.  There  they  lay,  sprawling  horribly,  their  ribs 
protruding  through  their  hides,  their  eyes  putrid  in 
the  sunshine.  It  was  like  a  battlefield,  hauntingly 
hideous. 

And  every  day  was  adding  to  their  numbers.  The 
trail  ran  over  great  boulders  covered  with  icy  slush, 
through  which  the  weary  brutes  sank  to  their  bellies. 
Struggling  desperately,  down  they  would  come  be- 
tween two  boulders.  Then  their  legs  would  snap 
like  pipe-stems,  and  there  usually  they  were  left  to 
die. 

One  would  see,  jammed  in  the  cleft  of  a  rock,  the 
stump  of  a  hoof,  or  sticking  up  sharply,  the  jagged 
splinter  of  a  leg;  while  far  down  the  bluff  lay  the 

105 


io6  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

animal  to  which  it  belonged.  One  would  see  the 
poor  dead  brutes  lying  head  and  tail  for  an  hundred 
yards  at  a  stretch.  One  would  see  them  deserted 
and  desperate,  wandering  round  foraging  for  food. 
They  would  come  to  the  camp  at  night  whinnying 
pitifully,  and  with  a  look  of  terrible  entreaty  on  their 
starved  faces.  Then  one  would  take  pity  on  them — 
and  shoot  them. 

I  remember  stumbling  across  a  big,  heavy  horse 
one  night  in  the  gloom.  It  was  swaying  from  side 
to  side,  and  as  I  drew  near  I  saw  its  throat  was 
hideously  cut.  It  looked  at  me  with  such  agony 
in  its  eyes  that  I  put  my  handkerchief  over  its  face, 
and,  with  the  blow  of  an  axe,  ended  its  misery.  The 
most  spirited  of  the  horses  were  the  first  to  fall. 
They  broke  their  hearts  in  gallant  effort.  Goaded 
to  desperation,  sometimes  they  would  destroy  them- 
selves, throw  themselves  frantically  over  the  bluff. 
Oh,  it  was  horrible !  horrible ! 

Our  own  horse  proved  a  ready  victim.  To  tell 
the  truth,  no  one  but  the  Jam-wagon  was  particularly 
sorry.  If  there  was  a  sump-hole  in  sight,  that  horse 
was  sure  to  flounder  into  it.  Sometimes  twice  in  one 
day  we  had  to  unhitch  the  ox  and  pull  him  out. 
There  was  a  place  dug  out  of  the  snow  alongside 
the  trail,  which  was  being  used  as  a  knacker's  yard, 
and  here  we  took  him  with  a  broken  leg  and  put  a 
bullet  in  his  brain.  While  we  waited  there  were 
six  others  brought  in  to  be  shot. 

It  was  a  Sunday  and  we  were  in  the  tent,  inde- 
scribably glad  of  a  day's  rest.     The  Jam-wagon  was 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  107 

mending  a  bit  of  harness;  the  Prodigal  was  playing 
solitaire.  Salvation  Jim  had  just  returned  from 
a  trip  to  Skagway,  where  he  had  hoped  to  find  a 
letter  from  the  outside  regarding  one  Jake  Mosher. 
His  usually  hale  and  kindly  face  was  drawn  and 
troubled.  Wearily  he  removed  his  snow-sodden 
clothes. 

"  I  always  did  say  there  was  God's  curse  on  this 
Klondike  gold,"  he  said;  "now  I'm  sure  of  it. 
There's  a  hoodoo  on  it.  What  it's  a-goin'  to  cost, 
what  hearts  it's  goin'  to  break,  what  homes  it's  goin' 
to  wreck  no  man'U  ever  know.  God  only  knows 
what  it's  cost  already.  But  this  last  is  the  worst 
yet." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Jim?  "  I  said;  "  what  last?  " 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard?  Well,  there's  just 
been  a  snow-slide  on  the  Chilcoot  an'  several  hundred 
people  buried." 

I  stared  aghast.  Living  as  we  did  in  daily  dan- 
ger of  snow-slides,  this  disaster  struck  us  with  terror. 

"  You  don't  say !  "  said  the  Prodigal.    "  Where  ?  " 

"  Oh,  somewhere's  near  Lindeman.  Hundreds  of 
poor  sinners  cut  off  without  a  chance  to  repent." 

He  was  going  to  improve  on  the  occasion  when 
the  Prodigal  cut  in. 

"Poor  devils!  I  guess  we  must  know  some  of 
them  too."  He  turned  to  me.  "  I  wonder  if  your 
little  Polak  friend's  all  right?" 

Indeed  my  thoughts  had  just  flown  to  Berna. 
Among  the  exigencies  of  the  trail  (when  we  had  to 
fix   our  minds   on   the   trouble   of  the   moment  and 


io8  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

every  moment  had  its  trouble)  there  was  Httle  time 
for  reflection.  Nevertheless,  I  had  found  at  all 
times  visions  of  her  flitting  before  me,  thoughts  of 
her  coming  to  me  when  I  least  expected  them.  Pity, 
tenderness  and  a  good  deal  of  anxiety  were  in  my 
mind.  Often  I  wondered  if  ever  I  would  see  her 
again.  A  feeling  of  joy  and  a  great  longing  would 
sweep  over  me  in  the  hope.  At  these  words  then 
of  the  Prodigal,  it  seemed  as  if  all  my  scattered 
sentiments  crystallised  into  one,  and  a  vast  desire 
that  was  almost  pain  came  over  me.  I  suppose  I  was 
silent,  grave,  and  it  must  have  been  some  intuition  of 
my  thoughts  that  made  the  Prodigal  say  to  me: 

"  Say,  old  man,  if  you  would  like  to  take  a  run 
over  the  Dyea  trail,  I  guess  I  can  spare  you  for  a 
day  or  so." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Pd  like  to  see  the  trail." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we've  observed  your  enthusiastic  in- 
terest in  trails.  Why  don't  you  marry  the  girl? 
Well,  cut  along,  old  chap.     Don't  be  gone  too  long." 

So  next  morning,  travelling  as  lightly  as  possible, 
I  started  for  Bennett.  How  good  it  seemed  to  get 
off  unimpeded  by  an  outfit,  and  I  sped  past  the  weary 
mob,  struggling  along  on  the  last  lap  of  their  journey. 
I  had  been  In  some  expectation  of  the  trail  bettering 
itself,  but  indeed  It  appeared  at  every  step  to  grow 
more  hopelessly  terrible.  It  was  knee-deep  in  snowy 
slush,  and  below  that  seemed  to  be  literally  paved 
with  dead  horses. 

I  only  waited  long  enough  at  Bennett  to  have 
breakfast.     A  pie  nailed  to  a  tent-pole  Indicated  a 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  109 

restaurant,  and  there,  for  a  dollar,  I  had  a  good 
meal  of  beans  and  bacon,  coffee  and  flap-jacks.  It 
was  yet  early  morning  when  I  started  for  Lin- 
derman. 

The  air  was  clear  and  cold,  ideal  mushing  weather, 
and  already  parties  were  beginning  to  struggle  into 
Bennett,  looking  very  weary  and  jaded.  On  the 
trail  a  man  did  a  day's  work  by  nine  in  the  morning, 
another  by  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  third  by 
nightfall.     You  were  lucky  to  get  off  at  that. 

I  was  jogging  along  past  the  advance  guard  of 
the  oncoming  army,  when  who  should  I  see  but 
Mervin  and  Hewson.  They  looked  thoroughly  sea- 
soned, and  had  made  record  time  with  a  large  outfit. 
In  contrast  to  the  worn,  weary-eyed  men  with  faces 
pinched  and  puckered,  they  looked  insolently  fit  and 
full  of  fight.  They  had  heard  of  the  snow-slide  but 
could  give  me  no  particulars.  I  inquired  for  Berna 
and  the  old  man.  They  were  somewhere  behind,  be- 
tween Chilcoot  and  Lindeman.  "  Yes,  they  were 
probably  buried  under  the  slide.     Good-bye." 

I  hurried  forward,  full  of  apprehension.  A  black 
stream  of  Cheechakos  were  surging  across  Linde- 
man; then  I  realised  the  greatness  of  the  other  ad- 
vancing army,  and  the  vastness  of  the  impulse  that 
was  urging  these  indomitable  atoms  to  the  North. 
It  was  blowing  quite  hard  and  many  had  put  up  sails 
on  their  sleds  with  good  effect.  I  saw  a  Jew  driv- 
ing an  ox,  to  which  he  had  four  small  sleds  harnessed. 
On  each  of  these  he  had  hoisted  a  small  sail.  Sud- 
denly the  ox  looked  round  and  saw  the  sails.     Here 


no  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

was  something  that  did  not  come  within  the  scope 
of  his  experience.  With  a  bellow  of  fear,  he  stam- 
peded, pursued  by  a  yelling  Hebrew,  while  from  the 
chain  of  sleds  articles  scattered  in  all  directions. 
When  last  I  saw  them  in  the  far  distance,  Jew  and 
ox  were  still  going. 

Why  was  I  so  anxious  about  Berna?  I  did  not 
know,  but  with  every  mile  my  anxiety  increased.  A 
dim  unreasoning  fear  possessed  me.  I  imagined  that 
if  anything  happened  to  her  I  would  forever  blame 
myself.  I  saw  her  lying  white  and  cold  as  the  snow 
itself,  her  face  peaceful  in  death.  Why  had  I  not 
thought  more  of  her?  I  had  not  appreciated  her 
enough,  her  precious  sweetness  and  her  tenderness. 
If  only  she  was  spared,  I  would  show  her  what  a  good 
friend  I  could  be.  I  would  protect  her  and  be  near 
her  in  case  of  need.  But  then  how  foolish  to  think 
anything  could  have  happened  to  her.  The  chances 
were  one  in  a  hundred.  Nevertheless,  I  hurried  for- 
ward. 

I  met  the  Twins.  They  had  just  escaped  the  slide, 
they  told  me,  and  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
shock.  A  little  way  back  on  the  trail  it  was.  I 
would  see  men  digging  out  the  bodies.  They  had 
dug  out  seventeen  that  morning.  Some  were  crushed 
as  flat  as  pancakes. 

Again,  with  a  pain  at  my  heart,  I  asked  after 
Berna  and  her  grandfather.  Twin  number  one  said 
they  were  both  buried  under  the  slide.  I  gasped 
and  was  seized  with  sudden  faintness.  "  No,"  said 
twin  number  two,  "  the  old  man  is  missing,  but  the 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  iii 

girl  has  escaped  and  is  nearly  crazy  with  grief.  Good- 
bye." 

Once  more  I  hurried  on.  Gangs  of  men  were 
shovelling  for  the  dead.  Every  now  and  then  a 
shovel  would  strike  a  hand  or  a  skull.  Then  a 
shout  would  be  raised  and  the  poor  misshapen  body 
turned  out. 

Again  I  put  my  inquiries.  A  busy  digger  paused 
in  his  work.  He  was  a  sottish-looking  fellow,  and 
there  was  something  of  the  glare  of  a  ghoul  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  that  must  have  been  the  old  guy  with  the 
whiskers  they  dug  out  early  on  from  the  lower  end 
of  the  slide.  Relative,  name  of  Winklestein,  took 
charge  of  him.  Took  him  to  the  tent  yonder. 
Won't  let  any  one  go  near." 

He  pointed  to  a  tent  on  the  hillside,  and  it  was 
with  a  heavy  heart  I  went  forward.  The  poor  old 
man,  so  gentle,  so  dignified,  with  his  dream  of  a 
golden  treasure  that  might  bring  happiness  to  others. 
It  was  cruel,  cruel    .    .    . 

"Say,  what  d'ye  want  here?  Get  to  hell  outa 
this." 

The  words  came  with  a  snarl.  I  looked  up  in 
surprise. 

There  at  the  door  of  the  tent,  all  a-bristle  like  a 
gutter-bred  cur,  was  Winklestein. 


CHAPTER  IX 

I  STARED  at  the  man  a  moment,  for  little  had  I  ex- 
pected so  gracious  a  reception. 

"Mush  on,  there,"  he  repeated  truculently; 
"you're  not  wanted  'round  here.  Mush!  Pretty 
darned  smart." 

I  felt  myself  grow  suddenly,  savagely  angry.  I 
measured  the  man  for  a  moment  and  determined  I 
could  handle  him. 

"  I  want,"  I  said  soberly,  "  to  see  the  body  of  my 
old  friend." 

"  You  do,  do  you?  Well,  you  darned  well  won't. 
Besides,  there  ain't  no  body  here." 

"You're  a  liar!"  I  observed.  "But  it's  no  use 
wasting  words  on  you.      I'm  going  on  anyhow." 

With  that  I  gripped  him  suddenly  and  threw  him 
sideways  with  some  force.  One  of  the  tent  ropes 
took  away  his  feet  violently,  and  there  on  the 
snow  he  sprawled,  glowering  at  me  with  evil 
eyes. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  I've  got  a  gun,  and  if  you  try 
any  monkey  business,  I'll  fix  you  so  quick  you  won't 
know  what's  happened." 

The  bluff  worked.  He  gathered  himself  up  and 
followed  me  into  the  tent,  looking  the  picture  of 
malevolent  impotence.  On  the  ground  lay  a  longish 
object  covered  with  a  blanket.     With  a  strange  feel- 

112 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98    '         113 

ing  of  reluctant  horror  I  lifted  the  covering.     Be- 
neath it  lay  the  body  of  the  old  man. 

He  was  lying  on  his  back,  and  had  not  been 
squeezed  out  of  all  human  semblance  like  so  many 
of  the  others.  Nevertheless,  he  was  ghastly  enough, 
with  his  bluish  face  and  wide  bulging  eyes.  What 
had  worn  his  fingers  to  the  bone  so?  He  must  have 
made  a  desperate  struggle  with  his  bare  hands  to  dig 
himself  out.  I  will  never  forget  those  torn,  nailless 
fingers.  I  felt  around  his  waist.  Ha !  the  money 
belt  was  gone! 

"  Winklestein,"  I  said,  turning  suddenly  on  the 
little  Jew,  "  this  man  had  two  thousand  dollars  on 
him.     What  have  you  done  with  it?  " 

He  started  violently.  A  look  of  fear  came  into  his 
eyes.  It  died  away,  and  his  face  was  convulsed  with 
rage. 

"  He  did  not,"  he  screamed;  "  he  didn't  have  a  red 
cent.  He's  no  more  than  an  old  pauper  I  was  taking 
in  to  play  the  fiddle.  He  owes  me,  curse  him !  And 
who  are  you  anyways,  you  blasted  meddler,  that 
accuses  a  decent  man  of  being  a  body  robber?  " 

"  I  was  this  dead  man's  friend.  I'm  still  his 
granddaughter's  friend.  I'm  going  to  see  justice 
done.  This  man  had  two  thousand  dollars  in  a 
gold  belt  round  his  waist.  It  belongs  to  the 
girl  now.  You've  got  to  give  it  up,  Winklestein,  or 
by " 

"  Prove  it,  prove  it!  "  he  spluttered,  "  lou're  a 
liar;  she's  a  liar;  you're  all  a  pack  of  liars,  trying  to 
blackmail  a  decent  man.     He  had  no  money,  I  sayl 


114  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

He  had  no  money,  and  if  ever  he  said  so,  he's  a 
liar." 

"  Oh,  you  vile  wretch!  "  I  cried.  "  It's  you  that's 
lying.  I've  a  mind  to  choke  your  dirty  throat. 
But  I'll  hound  you  till  I  make  you  cough  up  that 
money.     Where's  Berna?  " 

Suddenly  he  had  become  quietly  malicious. 

"Find  her,"  he  jibed;  "find  her  for  yourself. 
And  take  yourself  out  of  my  sight  as  quickly  as  you 
please." 

I  saw  he  had  me  over  a  barrel,  so,  with  a  parting 
threat,  I  left  him.  A  tent  nearby  was  being  run  as 
a  restaurant,  and  there  I  had  a  cup  of  coffee.  Of 
the  man  who  kept  it,  a  fat,  humorous  cockney,  I 
made  enquiries  regarding  the  girl.  Yes,  he  knew 
her.  She  was  living  in  yonder  tent  with  Madam 
Winklestein. 

"  They  sy  she's  tykin'  on  horful  baht  th'  old  man, 
pore  kid!  " 

I  thanked  him,  gulped  down  my  coffee,  and  made 
for  the  tent.  The  flap  was  down,  but  I  rapped 
on  the  canvas,  and  presently  the  dark  face  of 
Madam  appeared.  When  she  saw  me,  it  grew 
darker. 

"What  d'you  want?"  she  demanded. 

"  I  want  to  see  Berna,"  I  said. 

"Then  you  can't.  Can't  you  hear  her?  Isn't 
that  enough?  " 

Surely  I  could  hear  a  very  low,  pitiful  sound  com- 
ing from  the  tent,  something  between  a  sob  and  a 
moan,   like   the  wailing  of  an  Indian  woman  over 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  115 

her  dead,  only  Infinitely  subdued  and  anguished.     I 
was  shocked,  awed,  immeasurably  grieved. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said;  "  I'm  sorry.  I  don't  want 
to  intrude  on  her  in  her  hour  of  affliction.  I'll  come 
again." 

"All  right,"  she  laughed  tauntingly;  "come 
again." 

I  had  failed.  I  thought  of  turning  back,  then  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  see  what  I  could  of  the  far- 
famed  Chilcoot,  so  once  more  I  struck  out. 

The  faces  of  the  hundreds  I  met  were  the  same 
faces  I  had  passed  by  the  thousand,  stamped  with  the 
seal  of  the  trail,  seamed  with  lines  of  suffering,  wan 
with  fatigue,  blank  with  despair.  There  was  the 
same  desperate  hurry,  the  same  indifference  to  calam- 
ity, the  same  grim  stoical  endurance. 

A  snow-storm  was  raging  on  the  summit  of  the 
Chilcoot  and  the  snow  was  drifting,  covering  the 
thousands  of  caches  to  the  depth  of  ten  and  fifteen 
feet.  I  stood  on  the  summit  of  that  nearly  perpen- 
dicular ascent  they  call  the  "  Scales."  Steps  had  been 
cut  in  the  icy  steep,  and  up  these  men  were  strain- 
ing, each  with  a  huge  pack  on  his  back.  They  could 
only  go  in  single  file.  It  was  the  famous  "  Human 
Chain."  At  regular  distances,  platforms  had  been 
cut  beside  the  trail,  where  the  exhausted  ones  might 
leave  the  ranks  and  rest;  but  if  a  worn-out  climber 
reeled  and  crawled  into  one  of  the  shelters,  quickly  the 
line  closed  up  and  none  gave  him  a  glance. 

The  men  wore  ice-creepers,  so  that  their  feet 
would  clutch  the  slippery  surface.     Many  of  them 


ii6  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

had  staffs,  and  all  were  bent  nigh  double  under  their 
burdens.  They  did  not  speak,  their  lips  were  grimly 
sealed,  their  eyes  fixed  and  stern.  They  bowed  their 
heads  to  thwart  the  buffetings  of  the  storm-wind,  but 
every  way  they  turned  it  seemed  to  meet  them.  The 
snow  lay  thick  on  their  shoulders  and  covered  their 
breasts.  On  their  beards  the  spiked  icicles  glistened. 
As  they  moved  up  step  by  step,  it  seemed  as  if  their 
feet  were  made  of  lead,  so  heavily  did  they  lift  them. 
And  the  resting-places  by  the  trail  were  never  empty. 

You  saw  them  in  the  canyon  at  the  trail  top,  stag- 
gering in  the  wind  that  seemed  to  blow  every  way 
at  once.  You  saw  them  blindly  groping  for  the 
caches  they  had  made  but  yesterday  and  now  fathoms 
deep  under  the  snowdrift.  You  saw  them  descend- 
ing swiftly,  dizzily,  leaning  back  on  their  staffs,  for 
the  down  trail  was  like  a  slide.  In  a  moment  they 
were  lost  to  sight,  but  to-morrow  they  would  come 
again,  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow,  the  men  of  the 
Chilcoot. 

The  Trail  of  Travail — surely  it  was  all  epitomised 
in  the  tribulations  of  that  stark  ascent.  From  my 
eyrie  on  its  blizzard-beaten  crest  I  could  see  the 
Human  Chain  drag  upward  link  by  link,  and  every 
link  a  man.  And  as  he  climbed  that  pitiless  tread- 
mill, on  each  man's  face  there  could  be  deciphered 
the  palimpsest  of  his  soul. 

Oh,  what  a  drama  it  was,  and  what  a  stage!  The 
Trail  of  '98 — high  courage,  frenzied  fear,  despotic 
greed,  unflinching  sacrifice.  But  over  all — its  hun- 
ger and  its  hope,  its  passion  and  its  pain — triumphed 


■'^ 


^iU-n**- 


l^M..**!^-.- 


*'No,"  she  said  firmly,  "you  can't  see  the  girl' 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  117 

the  dauntless  spirit  of  the   Pathfinder — the  mighty 
Pioneer. 

Then  I  knew,  I  knew.  These  silent,  patient,  toil- 
ing ones  were  the  Conquerors  of  the  Great  White 
Land;  the  Men  of  the  High  North,  the  Brotherhood 
of  the  Arctic  Wild.  No  saga  will  ever  glorify  their 
deeds,  no  epic  make  them  immortal.  Their  names 
will  be  written  in  the  snows  that  melt  and  vanish 
at  the  smile  of  Spring;  but  in  their  works  will  they 
live,  and  their  indomitable  spirit  will  be  as  a 
beacon-light,  shining  down  the  dim  corridors  of 
Eternity. 

^  3|c  ^  3fC  ^  *|* 

1  slept  at  a  bunkhouse  that  night,  and  next  morn- 
ing I  again  made  a  call  at  the  tent  within  which  lay 
Berna.  Again  Madam,  in  a  gaudy  wrapper,  an- 
swered my  call,  but  this  time,  to  my  surprise,  she  was 
quite  pleasant. 

"  No,"  she  said  firmly,  "  you  can't  see  the  girl. 
She's  all  prostrated.  We've  given  her  a  sleeping 
powder  and  she's  asleep  now.  But  she's  mighty  sick. 
We've  sent  for  a  doctor." 

There  was  indeed  nothing  to  be  done.  With  a 
heavy  heart  I  thanked  her,  expressed  my  regrets  and 
went  away.  What  had  got  into  me,  I  wondered, 
that  I  was  so  distressed  about  the  girl.  I  thought 
of  her  continually,  with  tenderness  and  longing.  I 
had  seen  so  little  of  her,  yet  that  little  had  meant  so 
much.  I  took  a  sad  pleasure  in  recalling  her  to  mind 
in  varying  aspects;  always  she  appeared  different  to 
me  somehow.     I  could  get  no  definite  idea  of  her; 


ii8  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

ever  was  there  something  baffling,  mysterious,  half 
revealed. 

To  me  there  was  in  her,  beauty,  charm,  every  ideal 
quality.  Yet  must  my  eyes  have  been  anointed,  for 
others  passed  her  by  without  a  second  glance.  Oh, 
I  was  young  and  foolish,  maybe;  but  I  had  never 
before  known  a  girl  that  appealed  to  me,  and  it  was 
very,  very  sweet. 

So  I  went  back  to  the  restaurant  and  gave  the  fat 
cockney  a  note  which  he  promised  to  deliver  into 
her  own  hands.     I  wrote : 

"Dear  Bern  a:  I  cannot  tell  you  how  deeply  grieved  I 
am  over  your  grandfather's  death,  and  how  I  sympathise 
with  you  in  your  sorrow.  I  came  over  from  the  other  trail 
to  see  you,  but  you  were  too  ill.  Now  I  must  go  back  at 
once.  If  I  could  only  have  said  a  word  to  comfort  you!  I 
feel  terribly  about  it. 

"  Oh,  Berna,  dear,  go  back,  go  back.  This  is  no  country 
for  you.  If  I  can  help  you,  Berna,  let  me  know.  If  you 
come  on  to  Bennett,  then  I  will  see  you. 

"  Believe  me  again,  dear,  my  heart  aches  for  you. 

"  Be  brave. 

"  Always  affectionately  yours, 

"Athol  Meldrum." 

Then  once  more  I  struck  out  for  Bennett. 


CHAPTER  X 

Our  last  load  was  safely  landed  in  Bennett  and  the 
trail  of  the  land  was  over.  We  had  packed  an  out- 
fit of  four  thousand  pounds  over  a  thirty-seven-mile 
trail  and  it  had  taken  us  nearly  a  month.  For  an 
average  of  fifteen  hours  a  day  we  had  worked  for 
all  that  was  In  us;  yet,  looking  back,  it  seems  to  have 
been  more  a  matter  of  dogged  persistence  and  pa- 
tience than  desperate  endeavour  and  endurance. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  to  the  great  majority,  the 
trail  spelt  privation,  misery  and  suffering;  but  they 
were  of  the  poor,  deluded  multitude  that  never  should 
have  left  their  ploughs,  their  desks  and  their  benches. 
Then  there  were  others  like  ourselves  to  whom  it 
meant  hardship,  more  or  less  extreme,  but  who  man- 
aged to  struggle  along  fairly  well.  Lastly,  there 
was  a  minority  to  whom  it  was  little  more  than  dis- 
comfort. They  were  the  seasoned  veterans  of  the 
trail  to  whom  its  trials  were  all  in  the  day's  work. 
It  was  as  if  the  Great  White  Land  was  putting  us 
to  the  test,  was  weeding  out  the  fit  from  the  unfit, 
was  proving  itself  a  land  of  the  Strong,  a  land  for 
men. 

And  indeed  our  party  was  well  qualified  to  pass 
the  test  of  the  trail.  The  Prodigal  was  full  of  irre- 
pressible enthusiasm,  and  always  loaded  to  the  muz- 
zle with  ideas.     Salvation  Jim  was  a  mine  of  fore- 

119 


120  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

sight  and  resource,  while  the  Jam-wagon  proved  him- 
self an  insatiable  glutton  for  work.  Altogether  we 
fared  better  than  the  average  party. 

We  were  camped  on  the  narrow  neck  of  water 
between  Lindeman  and  Bennett,  and  as  hay  was 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  ton,  the  first  thing  we 
did  was  to  butcher  the  ox.  The  next  was  to  see 
about  building  a  boat.  We  thought  of  whipsawing 
our  own  boards,  but  the  timber  near  us  was  poor 
or  thinned  out,  so  that  in  the  end  we  bought  lumber, 
paying  for  it  twenty  cents  a  foot.  We  were  all  very 
unexpert  carpenters;  however,  by  watching  others, 
we  managed  to  make  a  decent-looking  boat. 

These  were  the  busy  days.  At  Bennett  the  two 
great  Cheechako  armies  converged,  and  there  must 
have  been  thirty  thousand  people  camped  round  the 
lake.  The  night  was  ablaze  with  countless  camp- 
fires,  the  day  a  buzz  of  busy  toil.  Everywhere  you 
heard  the  racket  of  hammer  and  saw,  beheld  men  in 
feverish  haste  over  their  boat-building.  There  were 
many  fine  boats,  but  the  crude  makeshift  effort  of  the 
amateur  predominated.  Some  of  them,  indeed,  had 
no  more  shape  than  a  packing-case,  and  not  a  few 
resembled  a  coffin.  Anything  that  would  float  and 
keep  out  the  water  was  a  "  boat." 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  think  that  from  thenceforward, 
the  swift,  clear  current  would  bear  us  to  our  goal. 
No  more  icy  slush  to  the  knee,  no  more  putrid  horse- 
flesh under  foot,  no  more  blinding  blizzards  and 
heart-breaking  drift  of  snows.  But  the  blue  sky 
would  canopy  us,  the  gentle  breezes  fan  us,  the  warm 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  121 

sun  lock  us  In  her  arms.  No  more  bitter  freezings 
and  sinister  dawns  and  weary  travail  of  mind  and 
body.  The  hills  would  busk  themselves  In  emerald 
green,  the  wild  crocus  come  to  gladden  our  eyes,  the 
long  nights  glow  with  sunsets  of  theatric  splendour. 
No  wonder,  In  the  glory  of  reaction,  we  exulted  and 
laboured  on  our  boat  with  brimming  hearts.  And 
always  before  us  gleamed  the  Golden  Magnet,  mak- 
ing us  chafe  and  rage  against  the  stubborn  Ice  that 
stayed  our  progress. 

The  days  were  full  of  breezy  sunshine  and  at  all 
times  the  Eager  Army  watched  the  rotting  Ice  with 
anxious  eyes.  In  places  It  was  fairly  honeycombed 
now,  In  others  corroded  and  splintered  Into  silver 
spears.  Here  and  there  It  heaved  up  and  cracked 
across  in  gaping  chasms;  again  It  sagged  down  sud- 
denly. There  were  sheets  of  surface  water  and 
stretches  of  greenish  slush  that  froze  faintly  over- 
night. In  large,  flaming  letters  of  red,  the  lake  was 
dangerous,  near  to  a  break-up,  a  death  trap;  yet 
every  day  the  reckless  ones  were  going  over  it  to 
be  that  much  nearer  the  golden  goal. 

In  this  game  of  taking  desperate  chances,  many 
a  wild  player  lost,  many  a  foolhardy  one  never 
reached  the  shore.  No  one  will  ever  know  the  num- 
ber of  victims  claimed  by  these  black  unfathomable 
waters. 

It  was  the  Professor  who  opened  our  eyes  to  the 
danger  of  crossing  the  lake.  He  and  the  Bank  clerk 
quarrelled  over  the  wisdom  of  delay.  The  Professor 
was  positive  it  was  quite  safe.     The  ice  was  four 


122  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

feet  thick.  Go  fast  over  the  weak  spots  and  you 
would  be  all  right.  He  argued,  fumed  and  ranted. 
They  were  losing  precious  time,  time  which  might 
mean  all  the  difference  between  failure  and  success. 
It  was  expedient  to  get  ahead  of  the  rabble.  He,  for 
one,  was  no  craven;  he  had  staked  his  all  on  this  trip. 
He  had  studied  the  records  of  Arctic  explorers.  He 
thought  he  was  no  man's  fool.  If  others  were  cow- 
ardly enough  to  hold  back,  he  would  go  alone. 

The  upshot  of  It  was  that  one  grey  morning  he 
took  his  share  of  the  outfit  and  started  off  by  him- 
self. 

Said  the  Bank  clerk,  half  crying: 

"  Poor  old  Pondersby!  In  spite  of  the  words  we 
had,  we  parted  the  best  of  friends.  We  shook 
hands  and  I  wished  him  all  good-speed.  I  saw  him 
twisting  and  wriggling  among  the  patches  of  black 
and  white  Ice.  For  a  long  time  I  watched  him  with 
a  heavy  heart.  Yet  he  seemed  to  be  getting  along 
nicely,  and  I  was  beginning  to  think  he  was  right 
and  to  call  myself  a  fool.  He  was  getting  quite 
small  in  the  distance,  when  suddenly  he  seemed  to 
disappear.  I  got  the  glasses.  There  was  a  big 
hole  In  the  Ice,  no  sleigh,  no  Pondersby.  Poor  old 
fellow!" 

There  were  many  such  cases  of  separation  on  the 
shores  of  Lake  Bennett.  Parties  who  had  started 
out  on  that  trail  as  devoted  chums,  finished  it  as 
lifelong  enemies.  Tempers  were  ground  to  a  razor- 
edge;  words  dropped  crudely;  anger  flamed  to  meet 
anger.     You  could  scarcely  blame  them.     They  did 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  123 

not  realise  that  the  trail  demanded  all  that  was  In  a 
man  of  gentleness,  patience  and  forbearance.  Poor 
human  nature  was  strained  and  tested  inexorably,  and 
the  most  loving  friends  became  the  most  deadly  foes 
forevermore. 

One  Instance  of  this  was  the  twins. 

"  Say,"  said  the  Prodigal,  "  you  ought  to  see 
Romulus  and  Remus.  They're  scrapping  like  cat 
and  dog.  Seems  they've  had  a  bunch  of  trouble 
right  along  the  line — you  know  how  the  trail  brings 
out  the  yellow  streak  in  a  man.  Well,  they're  both 
fiery  as  Hades,  so  after  a  particularly  warm  evening 
they  swore  that  as  soon  as  they  got  to  Bennett,  they'd 
divvy  up  the  stuff  and  each  go  off  by  his  lonesome. 
Somehow,  they  patched  it  up  when  they  reached  here 
and  got  busy  on  their  boat.  Now  it  seems  they've 
quarrelled  worse  than  ever.  Romulus  Is  telling 
Remus  his  real  name  and  vice-versa.  They're  rak- 
ing up  old  grievances  of  their  childhood  days,  and 
the  end  of  it  is  they've  once  more  decided  to  halve 
up  the  outfit.  They're  mad  enough  to  kill  each 
other.  They've  even  decided  to  cut  their  boat  In 
two.'-' 

It  was  truly  so.  We  went  and  watched  them. 
Each  had  a  bitter  determination  on  his  face.  They 
were  sawing  the  boat  through  the  middle.  After- 
wards, I  believe,  they  patched  up  their  ends  and 
made  a  successful  trip  to  Dawson. 

The  ice  was  going  fast.  Strangers  were  still  com- 
ing In  over  the  trail  with  awful  tales  of  its  horrors. 
Bennett  was  all  excitement  and  seething  life.     Thou- 


124  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

sands  of  ungainly  boats,  rafts  and  scows  were  wait- 
ing to  be  launched.  Already  craft  were  beginning 
to  come  through  from  Lindeman,  rushing  down  the 
fierce  torrent  between  the  two  lakes.  From  where 
we  were  camped  we  saw  them  pass.  There  were 
ugly  rapids  and  a  fang-like  rock,  against  which  many 
a  luckless  craft  was  piled  up. 

It  was  the  most  fascinating  thing  in  the  world  to 
watch  these  daring  Argonauts  rush  the  rapids,  to 
speculate  whether  or  not  they  would  get  through. 
The  stroke  of  an  oar,  a  few  feet  to  right  or  left, 
meant  unspeakable  calamity.  Poor  souls !  Their 
faces  of  utter  despair  as  they  landed  dripping  from 
the  water  and  saw  their  precious  goods  disappear- 
ing in  the  angry  foam  would  have  moved  a  heart  of 
stone.  As  one  man  said,  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart: 

"  Oh,  boys,  what  a  funny  God  we've  got !  " 

There  was  a  man  who  came  sailing  through  the 
passage  with  a  fine  boat  and  a  rich  outfit.  He  had 
lugged  it  over  the  trail  at  the  cost  of  infinite  toil  and 
weariness.  Now  his  heart  was  full  of  hope.  Sud- 
denly he  was  in  the  whirl  of  the  current,  then  all  at 
once  loomed  up  the  cruel  rock.  His  face  blanched 
with  horror.  Frantically  he  tried  to  avoid  it.  No 
use.  Crash  !  and  his  frail  boat  splintered  like  match- 
wood. 

But  this  man  was  a  fighter.  He  set  his  jaw. 
Once  more  he  went  back  over  that  deadly  trail.  He 
bought,  at  great  expense,  a  new  outfit  and  had  pack- 
ers hustle  it  over  the  trail.     He  procured  a  new 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  125 

boat.  Once  more  he  sailed  through  the  narrow 
canyon.     His  face  was  set  and  grim. 

Suddenly,  like  some  iron  Nemesis,  once  more 
loomed  up  the  fatal  rock.  He  struggled  gallantly, 
but  again  the  current  seemed  to  grip  him  and  throw 
him  on  that  deadly  fang.  With  another  sicken- 
ing crash  he  saw  his  goods  sink  in  the  seething 
waters. 

Did  he  give  up  ?  No  !  A  third  time  he  struggled, 
weary,  heart-broken,  over  that  trail.  He  had  little 
left  now,  and  with  that  little  he  bought  his  third 
outfit,  a  poor,  pathetic  shadow  of  the  former  ones, 
but  enough  for  a  desperate  man. 

Once  more  he  packed  it  over  the  trail,  now  a 
perfect  Avernus  of  horror.  He  reached  the  river, 
and  in  a  third  poor  little  boat,  again  he  sailed  down 
the  passage.  There  was  the  swift-leaping  cur- 
rent, the  ugly  tusk  of  rock  staked  with  wreckage. 
A  moment,  a  few  feet,  a  turn  of  the  oar-blade,  and 
he  would  have  been  past.  But,  no !  The  rock 
seemed  to  fascinate  him  as  the  eyes  of  a  snake  fasci- 
nate a  bird.  He  stared  at  it  fearfully,  a  look  of 
terror  and  despair.  Then  for  the  third  time,  with 
a  hideous  crash,  his  frail  boat  was  piled  up  in  a 
pitiful  ruin. 

He  was  beaten  now. 

He  climbed  on  the  bank,  and  there,  with  a  last 
look  at  the  ugly  snarl  of  waters,  and  the  jagged  up- 
thrust  of  that  evil  rock,  he  put  a  bullet  smashing 
through  his  brain. 

4e  :(!  >H  ^  *  H« 


126  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

The  ice  was  loose  and  broken.  We  were  all 
ready  to  start  in  a  few  days.  The  mighty  camp  was 
in  a  ferment  of  excitement.  Every  one  seemed 
elated  beyond  words.     On,  once  more,  to  Eldorado! 

It  was  near  midnight,  but  the  sky,  where  the  sun 
had  dipped  below  the  mountain  rim,  was  a  sea  of 
translucent  green,  weirdly  and  wildly  harmonious 
with  the  desolation  of  the  land.  On  the  bleak  lake 
one  could  hear  the  lap  of  waves,  while  the  high,  rocky 
shore  to  the  left  was  a  black  wall  of  shadow.  I  stood 
by  the  beach  near  our  boat,  all  alone  in  the  wan 
light,  and  tried  to  think  calmly  of  the  strange  things 
that  had  happened  to  me. 

Surely  there  was  something  of  Romance  left  in 
this  old  world  yet  if  one  would  only  go  to  seek  It. 
Here  I  was,  sun-browned,  strong,  healthy,  having 
come  through  many  trials  and  still  on  the  edge  of 
adventure,  when  I  might,  but  for  my  own  headstrong 
perversity,  have  yet  been  vegetating  on  the  hills  of 
Glengyle.  A  great  exultation  welled  up  in  me,  the 
voice  of  youth  and  ambition,  the  lust  to  conquer. 
I  would  succeed,  I  would  wrest  from  the  vast,  lonely, 
mysterious  North  some  of  its  treasure.  I  would  be 
a  conqueror. 

Silent  and  abstracted,  I  looked  into  the  brooding 
disk  of  sheeny  sky,  my  eyes  dream-troubled. 

Then  I  felt  a  ghostly  hand  touch  my  arm,  and  with 
a  great  start  of  surprise,  I  turned. 

"  Berna !  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  girl  was  wearing  a  thin  black  shawl  around  her 
shoulders,  but  in  the  icy  wind  blowing  from  the  lake, 
she  trembled  like  a  wand.  Her  face  was  pale,  waxen^ 
almost  spiritual  in  its  expression,  and  she  looked  at 
me  with  just  the  most  pitiably  sweet  smile  in  the 
world. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  startled  you;  but  I  wanted  to  thank 
you  for  your  letter  and  for  your  sympathy." 

It  was  the  same  clear  voice,  with  the  throb  of 
tender  feeling  in  it. 

"  You  see,  I'm  all  alone  now."  The  voice  fal- 
tered, but  went  on  bravely.  "  I've  got  no  one  that 
cares  about  me  any  more,  and  I've  been  sick,  so  sick 
I  wonder  I  lived.  I  knew  you'd  forgotten  me,  and 
I  don't  blame  you.  But  I've  never  forgotten  you, 
and  I  wanted  to  see  you  just  once  more." 

She  was  speaking  quite  calmly  and  unemotionally. 

"Berna!"  I  cried;  "don't  say  that.  Your  re- 
proach hurts  me  so.  Indeed  I  did  try  to  find  you, 
but  it's  such  a  vast  camp.  There  are  so  many  thou- 
sands of  people  here.  Time  and  again  I  inquired, 
but  no  one  seemed  to  know.  Then  I  thought  you 
must  surely  have  gone  back,  and  it's  been  such  a 
busy  time,  building  our  boat  and  getting  ready.  No, 
Berna,  I  didn't  forget.  Many's  and  many's  a  night 
I've  lain  awake  thinking  of  you,  wondering,  longing 

127 


128  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

to  see  you  again — but  haven't  you  forgotten  a 
little?" 

I  saw  the  sensitive  lips  smile  almost  bitterly. 

"  No!  not  even  a  little." 

"  Oh !  I'm  sorry,  Berna.  I'm  sorry  I've  looked 
after  you  so  badly.  I'll  never  forgive  myself. 
You've  been  terribly  sick,  too.  What  a  little  white 
whisp  you  are!  You  look  as  if  a  breeze  would  blow 
you  away.  You  shouldn't  be  out  this  night,  girl. 
Put  my  coat  around  you,  come  now." 

I  wrapped  her  in  it  and  saw  with  gladness  her 
shivering  cease.  As  I  buttoned  it  at  her  throat  I 
marvelled  at  the  thinness  of  her,  and  at  the  delicacy 
of  her  face.  In  the  opal  light  of  the  luminous  sky 
her  great  grey  eyes  were  lustrous. 

"  Berna,"  I  said  again,  "  why  did  you  come  in 
here,  why?     You  should  have  gone  back." 

"Gone  back,"  she  repeated;  "indeed  I  would 
have,  oh,  so  gladly.  But  you  don't  understand — 
they  wouldn't  let  me.  After  they  had  got  all  his 
money — and  they  did  get  it,  though  they  swear  he 
had  nothing — they  made  me  come  on  with  them. 
They  said  I  owed  them  for  his  burial,  and  for  the 
care  and  attention  they  gave  me  when  I  was  sick. 
They  said  I  must  come  on  with  them  and  work  for 
them.  I  protested,  I  struggled.  But  what's  the 
use?  I  can't  do  anything  against  them  any  more. 
I'm  weak,  and  I'm  terribly  afraid  of  her." 

She  shuddered,  then  a  look  of  fear  came  into  her 
eyes.  I  put  my  hand  on  her  arm  and  drew  her  close 
to  me. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  129 

"  I  just  slipped  away  to-night.  She  thinks  I'm 
asleep  in  the  tent.  She  watches  me  like  a  cat,  and 
will  scarce  let  me  speak  to  any  one.  She's  so  big 
and  strong,  and  I'm  so  slight  and  weak.  She  would 
kill  me  in  one  of  her  rages.  Then  she  tells  every 
one  I'm  no  good,  an  ingrate,  everything  that's  bad. 
Once  when  I  threatened  to  run  away,  she  said  she 
would  accuse  me  of  stealing  and  have  me  put  in  gaol. 
That's  the  kind  of  woman  she  is." 

"  This  is  terrible,  Berna.  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  time?  " 

"  Oh,  I've  been  working,  working  for  them. 
They've  been  running  a  little  restaurant  and  I've 
waited  on  table.  I  saw  you  several  times,  but  you 
were  always  too  busy  or  too  far  away  in  dreams  to 
see  me,  and  I  couldn't  get  a  chance  to  speak.  But 
we're  going  down  the  lake  to-morrow,  so  I  thought 
I  would  just  slip  away  and  say  good-bye." 

"Not  good-bye,"  I  faltered;  "not  good-bye." 

Her  tone  was  measured,  her  eyes  closed  almost. 

"  Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  must  say  it.  When  we  get 
down  there,  it's  good-bye,  good-bye.  The  less  you 
have  to  do  with  me,  the  better." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  I  mean  this.  These  people  are  not  decent. 
They're  vile.  I  must  go  with  them ;  I  cannot  get 
away.  Already,  though  I'm  as  pure  as  your  sister 
would  be,  already  my  being  with  them  has  smirched 
me  in  everj'body's  eyes.  I  can  see  it  by  the  way  the 
men  look  at  me.  No,  go  your  way  and  leave  me  to 
whatever  fate  is  in  store  for  me." 


I30  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Never!  "  I  said  harshly.  "What  do  you  take 
me  for,  Berna?  " 

"  My  friend  .  .  .  you  know,  after  his  death, 
when  I  was  so  sick,  I  wanted  to  die.  Then  I  got 
your  letter,  and  I  felt  I  must  see  you  again  for — I 
thought  a  lot  of  you.  No  man's  ever  been  so  kind 
to  me  as  you  have.  They've  all  been — the  other 
sort.  I  used  to  think  of  you  a  good  deal,  and  I 
wanted  to  do  some  little  thing  to  show  you  I  was 
really  grateful.  On  the  boat  I  used  to  notice  you 
because  you  were  so  quiet  and  abstracted.  Then  you 
were  grandfather's  room-mate  and  gentle  and  kind 
to  him.  You  looked  different  from  the  others,  too; 
your  eyes  were  good " 

'*  Oh,  come,  Berna,  never  mind  that." 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  the 
things  a  poor  girl  thought  of  you.  But  now  it's  all 
nearly  over.  We've  neither  of  us  got  to  think  of 
each  other  any  more  .  .  .  and  I  just  wanted  to 
give  you  this — to  remind  you  sometimes  of  Berna." 

It  was  a  poor  little  locket  and  it  contained  a  lock 
of  her  silken  hair. 

"  It's  worth  nothing,  I  know,  but  just  keep  It  for 
me. 

"  Indeed  I  will,  Berna,  keep  It  always,  and  wear  it 
for  you.  But  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this.  See  here, 
girl,  is  there  nothing  I  can  do?  Nothing?  Surely 
there  must  be  some  way.  Berna,  Berna,  look  at  me, 
listen  to  me!  Is  there?  What  can  I  do?  Tell 
me,  tell  me,  my  girl." 

She  seemed  to  sway  to  me  gently.     Indeed  I  did 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  131 

not  intend  It,  but  somehow  she  was  in  my  arms.  She 
felt  so  slight  and  frail  a  thing,  I  feared  to  hurt  her. 

Then  I  felt  her  bosom  heaving  greatly,  and  I  knew 
she  was  crying.  For  a  little  I  let  her  cry,  but  pres- 
ently I  lifted  up  the  white  face  that  lay  on  my  shoul- 
der. It  was  wet  with  tears.  Again  and  again  I 
kissed  her.  She  lay  passively  in  my  arms.  Never 
did  she  try  to  escape  nor  hide  her  face,  but  seemed 
to  give  herself  up  to  me.  Her  tears  were  salt  upon 
my  lips,  yet  her  own  lips  were  cold,  and  she  did  not 
answer  to  my  kisses. 

At  last  she  spoke.  Her  voice  was  like  a  little 
sigh. 

"Oh,  If  it  could  only  be!" 

"  What,  Berna?     Tell  me  what?  " 

"  If  you  could  only  take  me  away  from  them, 
protect  me,  care  for  me.  Oh,  If  you  could  only 
marry  me,  make  me  your  wife.  I  would  be  the  best 
wife  in  the  world  to  you;  I  would  work  my  fingers 
to  the  bone  for  you;  I  would  starve  and  suffer  for 
you,  and  walk  the  world  barefoot  for  your  sake. 
Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  pity  me!  " 

It  seemed  as  if  a  sudden  light  had  flashed  upon 
my  brain,  stunning  me,  bewildering  me.  I  thought 
of  the  princess  of  my  dreams.  I  thought  of  Garry 
and  of  Mother.     Could  I  take  her  to  them? 

"  Berna,"  I  said  sternly,  "  look  at  me." 

She  obeyed. 

"  Berna,  tell  me,  by  all  you  regard  as  pure  and 
holy,  do  you  love  me?  " 

She  was  silent  and  averted  her  eyes. 


132  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"No,  Berna,"  I  said,  "you  don't;  you're  afraid. 
It's  not  the  sort  of  love  you've  dreamed  of.  It's  not 
your  ideal.  It  would  be  gratitude  and  affection,  love 
of  a  kind,  but  never  that  great  dazzling  light,  that 
passion  that  would  raise  to  heaven  or  drag  to  hell." 

"  How  do  I  know?  Perhaps  that  would  come  in 
time.  I  care  a  great  deal  for  you.  I  think  of  you 
always.     I  would  be  a  true,  devoted  wife — ^ — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Berna ;  but  you  don't  love  me,  love 
me;  see,  dear.  It's  so  different.  You  might  care 
and  care  till  doomsday,  but  it  wouldn't  be  the  other 
thing;  it  wouldn't  be  love  as  I  have  conceived  of  it, 
dreamed  of  it.  Listen,  Berna !  Here's  where  our 
difference  in  race  comes  in.  You  would  rush  blindly 
into  this.  You  would  not  consider,  test  and  prove 
yourself.  It's  the  most  serious  matter  in  life  to  me, 
something  to  be  looked  at  from  every  side,  to  be 
weighed  and  balanced." 

As  I  said  this,  my  conscience  was  whispering 
fiercely:  "Oh,  fool!  Coward!  Paltering,  despi- 
cable coward !  This  girl  throws  herself  on  you, 
on  your  honour,  chivalry,  manhood,  and  you  screen 
yourself  behind  a  barrier  of  convention." 

However,  I  went  on. 

"  You  might  come  to  love  me  in  time,  but  we  must 
wait  a  while,  little  girl.  Surely  that  is  reasonable? 
I  care  for  you  a  great,  great  deal,  but  I  don't  know 
if  I  love  you  in  the  great, way  people  should  love. 
Can't  we  wait  a  little,  Berna?  I'll  look  after  you, 
dear;  won't  that  do?  " 

She  disengaged  herself  from  me,  sighing  woefully. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  133 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  that'll  do.  Oh,  I'll  never  for- 
give myself  for  saying  that  to  you.  I  shouldn't,  but 
I  was  so  desperate.  You  don't  know  what  it  meant 
to  me.     Please  forget  it,  won't  you?  " 

"  No,  Berna,  I'll  never  forget  it,  and  I'll  always 
bless  you  for  having  said  it.  Believe  me,  dear,  it 
will  all  come  right.  Things  aren't  so  bad.  You're 
just  scared,  little  one.  I'll  watch  no  one  harms  you, 
and  love  will  come  to  both  of  us  in  good  time,  that 
love  that  means  life  and  death,  hate  and  adoration, 
rapture  and  pain,  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world. 
Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  trust  me !  We  have  known 
each  other  such  a  brief  space.  Let  us  wait  a  little 
longer,  just  a  little  longer." 

"  Yes,  that's  right,  a  little  longer." 

Her  voice  was  faint  and  toneless.  She  disen- 
gaged herself. 

"  Now,  good-night;  they  may  have  missed  me." 

Almost  before  I  could  realise  it  she  had  disap- 
peared amid  the  tents,  leaving  me  there  in  the  gloom 
with  my  heart  full  of  doubt,  self-reproach  and  pain. 

Oh,  despicable,  paltering  coward  I 


CHAPTER  XII 

Spring  in  the  Yukon !  Majestic  mountains  crowned 
with  immemorial  snow !  The  mad  midnight  melo- 
dies of  birds !  From  the  kindly  stars  to  the  leaves 
of  grass  that  glimmer  in  the  wind,  a  world  pregnant 
with  joy,  a  land  jewel-bright  and  virgin-sweet! 

After  the  obsession  of  the  long,  long  night,  Spring 
leaps  into  being  with  a  sudden  sun-thrilled  joy,  a 
radiant  uplift.  The  shy  emerald  mantles  the  val- 
leys and  fledges  the  heights;  the  pussy-willows  tremble 
by  lake  and  stream;  the  wild  crocus  brims  the  hol- 
lows with  a  haze  of  violet;  trailing  his  last  ragged 
pennants  of  snow  on  the  hills,  winter  makes  his  sullen 
retreat. 

Perhaps  I  am  over-sensitive,  but  I  have  ecstasied 
moments  when  to  me  it  seems  the  grass  is  greener, 
the  sky  bluer  than  they  are  to  most;  I  surrender  my 
heart  to  wonder  and  joy;  I  am  in  tune  with  the  tri- 
umphant cadence  of  Things;  I  am  an  atom  of  praise; 
I  live,  therefore  I  exult. 

Only  in  hyperbole  could  I  express  that  golden 
Spring,  as  we  set  sail  on  the  sunlit  waters  of  Lak^ 
Bennett.  Never  had  I  felt  so  glad.  And  indeed 
it  was  a  vastly  merry  mob  that  sailed  with  us^  strain- 
ing their  eyes  once  more  to  the  Eldorado  of  their 
dreams.  Bottled-up  spirits  effervesced  wildly;  hearts 
beat  bravely;   hopes  were   high.     The  bitter  land- 

134 


THE   TRAIL  OF   '98  135, 

trail  was  forgotten.  The  clear,  bright  water  leaped 
laughingly  at  the  bow;  the  gallant  breeze  was  blow- 
ing behind.  The  strong  men  bared  their  breasts 
and  drank  of  it  deeply. 

Yes,  they  were  the  strong,  the  fit,  suffered  by  the 
North  to  survive,  stiffened  and  braced  and  seasoned, 
the  Chosen  of  the  Test,  the  Proven  of  the  Trail. 
Songs  of  jubilation  rang  in  the  night  air;  men,  eager- 
eyed  and  watchful,  roared  snatches  of  melody  as  they 
toiled  at  sweep  and  oar;  banjos,  mandolins,  fiddles, 
flutes,  mingled  in  maddest  confusion.  Once  more  the 
great  invading  army  of  the  Cheechakos  moved  for- 
ward tumultuously,  but  now  with  mirth  and  rejoic- 
ing. 

The  great  calm  night  was  never  dark,  the  great 
deep  lakes  infinitely  serene,  the  great  mountains  majes- 
tically solemn.  In  the  lighted  sky  the  pale  ghost- 
moon  seemed  ever  apologising  for  itself.  The  world 
was  a  grand  harmonious  symphony  that  even  the 
advancing  tide  of  the  Argonauts  could  not  mar. 

Yet,  under  all  the  mirth  and  gaiety,  you  could 
feel,  tense,  ruthless  and  dominant,  the  spirit  of  the 
trail.  In  that  invincible  onrush  of  human  effort, 
as  the  oars  bent  with  their  strokes  of  might,  as  the 
sail  bellied  before  the  breeze,  as  the  eager  wave  leapt 
at  the  bow,  you  could  feel  the  passion  that  quickened 
their  hearts  and  steeled  their  arms.  Klondike  or 
bust!  Once  more  the  slogan  rang  on  bearded  lips; 
once  more  the  gold-lust  smouldered  in  their  eyes. 
The  old  primal  lust  resurged:  to  win  at  any  cost,  to 
thrust  down  those  in  the  way,  to  fight  fiercely,  bru- 


136  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

tally,  even  as  wolf-dogs  fight,  this  was  the  code,  the 
terrible  code  of  the  Gold-trail.  The  basic  passions 
up-leapt,  envy  and  hate  and  fear  triumphed,  and 
with  ever  increasing  excitement  the  great  fleet  of  the 
gold-hunters  strained  onward  to  the  valley  of  the 
treasure. 

Of  all  who  had  started  out  with  us  but  a  few  had 
got  this  far.  Of  these  Mervin  and  Hewson  were 
far  in  front,  victors  of  the  trail,  qualified  to  rank 
with  the  Men  of  the  High  North,  the  Sourdoughs 
of  the  Yukon  Valley.  Somewhere  in  the  fleet  were 
the  Bank  clerk,  the  Halfbreed  and  Bullhammer,  while 
three  days'  start  ahead  were  the  Winklesteins. 

"  These  Jews  have  the  only  system,"  commented 
the  Prodigal ;  "  they  ran  the  '  Elight '  Restaurant 
in  Bennett  and  got  action  on  their  beans  and  flour 
and  bacon.  The  Madam  cooked,  the  old  man  did 
the  chores  and  the  girl  waited  on  table.  They've 
roped  in  a  bunch  of  money,  and  now  they've  lit  out 
for  Dawson  in  a  nice,  tight  little  scow  with  their 
outfits  turned  into  wads  of  the  long  green." 

I  kept  a  keen  lookout  for  them  and  every  day  I 
hoped  we  would  overtake  their  scow,  for  constantly 
I  thought  of  Berna.  Her  little  face,  so  wistfully 
tender,  haunted  me,  and  over  and  over  in  my  mind 
I  kept  recalling  our  last  meeting. 

At  times  I  blamed  myself  for  letting  her  go  so 
easily,  and  then  again  I  was  thankful  that  I  had  not 
allowed  my  heart  to  run  away  with  my  head.  For 
I  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  I  had  not  given  her  my 
heart,  given  it  easily,  willingly  and  without  reserve. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  137 

And  in  truth  at  the  idea  I  felt  a  strange  thrill  of 
joy.  The  girl  seemed  to  me  all  that  was  fair,  lov- 
able and  sweet. 

We  were  now  skimming  over  Tagish  Lake,  With 
grey  head  bared  to  the  breeze  and  a  hymn  stave  on 
his  lips,  Salvation  Jim  steered  in  the  strong  sunlight. 
His  face  was  full  of  cheer,  his  eyes  alight  with 
kindly  hope.  Leaning  over  the  side,  the  Prodigal 
was  dragging  a  spoon-bait  to  catch  the  monster  trout 
that  lived  In  those  depths.  The  Jam-wagon,  as  if 
disgusted  at  our  enforced  idleness,  slumbered  at  the 
bow.  As  he  slept  I  noticed  his  fine  nostrils,  his  thin, 
bitter  hps,  his  bare  brawny  arms,  tattooed  with 
strange  devices.  How  clean  he  kept  his  teeth  and 
nails!  There  was  the  stamp  of  the  thoroughbred 
all  over  him.  In  what  strange  parts  of  the  world 
had  he  run  amuck?  What  fair,  gracious  women 
mourned  for  him  in  far-away  England? 

Ah,  those  enchanted  days,  the  sky  spaces  abrim 
with  light,  the  gargantuan  mountains,  the  eager  army 
of  adventurers,  undismayed  at  the  gloomy  vastness! 

We  came  to  Windy  Arm,  rugged,  desolate  and 
despairful.  Down  it,  with  menace  and  terror  on  its 
wings,  rushes  the  furious  wind,  driving  boats  and 
scows  crashing  on  an  iron  shore.  In  the  night  we 
heard  shouts;  we  saw  wreckage  piled  up  on  the  beach, 
but  we  pulled  away.  For  twelve  weary  hours  we 
pulled  at  the  oars,  and  In  the  end  our  danger  was 
past. 

We  came  to  Lake  Tagish;  a  dead  calm,  a  blazing 
sun,  a  seething  mist  of  mosquitoes.     We  sweltered 


138  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

in  the  heat;  we  strained,  with  blistered  hands,  at  the 
oars;  we  cursed  and  toiled  like  a  thousand  others  of 
that  grotesque  fleet.  There  were  boats  of  every 
shape,  square,  oblong,  circular,  three-cornered,  flat, 
round — anything  that  would  float.  They  were  made 
mostly  of  boards,  laboriously  hand-sawn  in  the  woods, 
and  from  a  half-inch  to  four  inches  thick.  Black 
pitch  smeared  the  seams  of  the  raw  lumber.  They 
travelled  sideways  as  well  as  in  any  other  fashion. 
And  in  such  crazy  craft  were  thousands  of  amateur 
boatmen,  sailing  serenely  along,  taking  danger  with 
sangfroid,  and  at  night,  over  their  camp-fires,  hilari- 
ously telling  of  their  hairbreadth  escapes. 

We  entered  the  Fifty-mile  River;  v/e  were  in  a  giant 
valley;  tier  after  tier  of  benchland  rose  to  sentinel 
mountains  of  austerest  grandeur.  There  at  the  bot- 
tom the  little  river  twisted  like  a  silver  wire,  and 
down  it  rowed  the  eager  army.  They  shattered  the 
silence  into  wildest  echo,  they  roused  the  bears  out 
of  their  frozen  sleep;  the  forest  flamed  from  their 
careless  fires. 

The  river  was  our  beast  of  burden  now,  a  tireless, 
gentle  beast.  Serenely  and  smoothly  it  bore  us  on- 
ward, yet  there  was  a  note  of  menace  in  its  song. 
They  had  told  us  of  the  canyon  and  of  the  rapids, 
and  as  we  pulled  at  the  oars  and  battled  with  the 
mosquitoes,  we  wondered  when  the  danger  was  com- 
ing, how  we  would  fare  through  it  when  it  came. 

Then  one  evening  as  we  were  sweeping  down  the 
placid  river,  the  current  suddenly  quickened.  The 
banks  were  sliding  past  at  a  strange  speed.     Swiftly 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  139 

we  whirled  around  a  bend,  and  there  we  were  right 
on  top  of  the  dreadful  canyon.  Straight  ahead  was 
what  seemed  to  be  a  solid  wall  of  rock.  The  river 
looked  to  have  no  outlet;  but  as  we  drew  nearer  we 
saw  that  there  was  a  narrow  chasm  in  the  stony  face, 
and  at  this  the  water  was  rearing  and  charging  with 
an  angry  roar. 

The  current  was  gripping  us  angrily  now;  there 
was  no  chance  to  draw  back.  At  his  post  stood  the 
Jam-wagon  with  the  keen,  alert  look  of  the  man 
who  loves  danger.  A  thrill  of  excitement  ran 
through  us  all.  With  set  faces  we  prepared  for  the 
fight. 

I  was  in  the  bow.  All  at  once  I  saw  directly  in 
front  a  scow  struggling  to  make  the  shore.  In  her 
there  were  three  people,  two  women  and  a  man.  I 
saw  the  man  jump  out  with  a  rope  and  try  to  snub 
the  scow  to  a  tree.  Three  times  he  failed,  running 
along  the  bank  and  shouting  frantically.  I  saw  one 
of  the  women  jump  for  the  shore.  Then  at  the  same 
instant  the  rope  parted,  and  the  scow,  with  the  re- 
maining woman,  went  swirling  on  into  the  canyon. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

All  this  I  saw,  and  so  fascinated  was  I  that  I  forgot 
our  own  peril.  I  heard  a  shrill  scream  of  fear;  I 
saw  the  solitary  woman  crouch  down  in  the  bottom 
of  the  scow,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands ;  I  saw 
the  scow  rise,  hover,  and  then  plunge  downward  into 
the  angry  maw  of  the  canyon. 

The  river  hurried  us  on  helplessly.  We  were  in 
the  canyon  now.  The  air  grew  dark.  On  each  side, 
so  close  it  seemed  we  could  almost  touch  them  with 
our  oars,  were  black,  ancient  walls,  towering  up  diz- 
zily. The'  river  seemed  to  leap  and  buck,  its  middle 
arching  four  feet  higher  than  its  sides,  a  veritable 
hog-back  of  water.  It  bounded  on  in  great  billows, 
green,  hillocky  and  terribly  swift,  like  a  liquid  to- 
boggan slide.  We  plunged  forward,  heaved  aloft, 
and  the  black,  moss-stained  walls  brindled  past  us. 

About  midway  in  the  canyon  is  a  huge  basin,  like 
the  old  crater  of  a  volcano,  sloping  upwards  to  the 
pine-fringed  skyline.  Here  was  a  giant  eddy,  and 
here,  circling  round  and  round,  was  the  runaway 
scow.  The  forsaken  woman  was  still  crouching  on 
it.  The  light  was  quite  wan,  and  we  were  half 
blinded  by  flie  flying  spray,  but  I  clung  to  my  place 
at  the  bow  and  watched  intently. 

"  Keep  clear  of  that  scow,"  I  heard  some  one 
shout.     "Avoid  the  eddy." 

140 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  141 

It  was  almost  too  late.  The  ill-fated  scow  spun 
round  and  swooped  down  on  us.  In  a  moment  we 
would  have  been  struck  and  overturned,  but  I  saw 
Jim  and  the  Jam-wagon  give  a  desperate  strain  at 
the  oars.  I  saw  the  scow  swirling  past,  just  two 
feet  from  us.  I  looked  again — then  with  a  wild 
panic  of  horror  I  saw  that  the  crouching  figure  was 
that  of  Berna. 

I  remember  jumping — it  must  have  been  five  feet 
— and  I  landed  half  in,  half  out  of  the  water.  I  re- 
member clinging  a  moment,  then  pulling  myself 
aboard.  I  heard  shouts  from  the  others  as  the  cur- 
rent swept  them  into  the  canyon.  I  remember  look- 
ing round  and  cursing  because  both  sweeps  had  been 
lost  overboard,  and  lastly  I  remember  bending  over 
Berna  and  shouting  in  her  ear: 

"All  right,  I'm  with  you!  " 

If  an  angel  had  dropped  from  high  heaven  to  her 
rescue  I  don't  believe  the  girl  could  have  been  more 
impressed.  For  a  moment  she  stared  at  me  unbe- 
lievingly. I  was  kneeling  by  her  and  she  put  her 
hands  on  my  shoulders  as  if  to  prove  to  herself  that 
I  was  real.  Then,  with  a  half-sob,  half-cry  of  joy, 
she  clasped  her  arms  tightly  around  me.  Something 
in  her  look,  something  in  the  touch  of  her  slender, 
clinging  form  made  my  heart  exult.  Once  again  I 
shouted  in  her  ear. 

"  It's  all  right,  don't  be  frightened.  We'll  pull 
through,   all  right." 

Once  more  we  had  whirled  off  into  the  main  cur- 
rent; once  more  we  were  in  that  roaring  torrent,  with 


142  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

its  fearsome  dips  and  rises,  its  columned  walls  cor- 
roded with  age  and  filled  with  the  gloom  of  eternal 
twilight.  The  water  smashed  and  battered  us, 
whirled  us  along  relentlessly,  lashed  us  in  heavy 
sprays;  yet  with  closed  eyes  and  thudding  hearts  we 
waited.  Then  suddenly  the  light  grew  strong  again. 
The  primaeval  walls  were  gone.  We  were  sweeping 
along  smoothly,  and  on  either  side  of  us  the  valley 
sloped  in  green  plateaus  up  to  the  smiling  sky. 

I  unlocked  my  arms  and  peered  down  to  where 
her  face  lay  half  hidden  on  my  breast. 

"  Thank  God,  I  was  able  to  reach  you !  " 

"  Yes,  thank  God!  "  she  answered  faintly.  "  Oh, 
I  thought  it  was  all  over.  I  nearly  died  with  fear. 
It  was  terrible.     Thank  God  for  you !  " 

But  she  had  scarce  spoken  when  I  realised,  with 
a  vast  shock,  that  the  danger  was  far  from  over. 
We  were  hurrying  along  helplessly  in  that  fierce  cur- 
rent, and  already  I  heard  the  roar  of  the  Squaw 
Rapids.  Ahead,  I  could  see  them  dancing,  boiling, 
foaming,  blood-red  in  the  sunset  glow. 

"  Be  brave,  Berna,"  I  had  to  shout  again;  "we'll 
be  all  right.     Trust  me,  dear !  " 

She,  too,  was  staring  ahead  with  dilated  eyes  of 
fear.  Yet  at  my  words  she  became  wonderfully 
calm,  and  in  her  face  there  was  a  great,  glad  look 
that  made  my  heart  rejoice.  She  nestled  to  my  side. 
Once  more  she  waited. 

We  took  the  rapids  broadside  on,  but  the  scow 
was  light  and  very  strong.  Like  a  cork  in  a  mill- 
stream  we  tossed   and  spun   around.     The  vicious, 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  143 

mauling  wolf-pack  of  the  river  heaved  us  into  the 
air,  and  worried  us  as  we  fell.  Drenched,  deafened, 
stunned  with  fierce,  nerve-shattering  blows,  every  mo- 
ment we  thought  to  go  under.  We  were  in  a  caldron 
of  fire.  The  roar  of  doom  was  in  our  ears.  Giant 
hands  with  claws  of  foam  were  clutching,  buffeting 
us.  Shrieks  of  fury  assailed  us,  as  demon  tossed  us 
to  demon.  Was  there  no  end  to  it?  Thud,  crash, 
roar,  sickening  us  to  our  hearts;  lurching,  leaping, 
beaten,  battered  .  .  .  then  all  at  once  came  a  calm; 
we  must  be  past;  we  opened  our  eyes. 

We  were  again  sweeping  round  a  bend  in  the  river 
in  the  shadow  of  a  high  bluff.  If  we  could  only 
make  the  bank — but,  no!  The  current  hurled  us 
along  once  more.  I  saw  it  sweep  under  a  rocky 
face  of  the  hillside,  and  then  I  knew  that  the  worst 
was  coming.  For  there,  about  two  hundred  yards 
away,  were  the  dreaded  Whitehorse  Rapids. 

"  Close  your  eyes,  Berna !  "  I  cried.  "  Lie  down 
on  the  bottom.     Pray  as  you  never  prayed  before." 

We  were  on  them  now.  The  rocky  banks  close 
in  till  they  nearly  meet.  They  form  a  narrow  gate- 
way of  rock,  and  through  those  close-set  jaws  the 
raging  river  has  to  pass.  Leaping,  crashing  over  its 
boulder-strewn  bed,  gaining  in  terrible  impetus  at 
every  leap,  it  gathers  speed  for  its  last  desperate 
burst  for  freedom.  Then  with  a  great  roar  it  charges 
the  gap. 

But  there,  right  in  the  way,  is  a  giant  boulder. 
Water  meets  rock  in  a  crash  of  terrific  onset.  The 
river  is  beaten,  broken,  thrown  back  on  itself,  and 


144  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

with  a  baffled  roar  rises  high  In  the  air  In  a  raging 
hell  of  spume  and  tempest.  For  a  moment  the 
chasm  is  a  battleground  of  the  elements,  a  fierce, 
titanic  struggle.  Then  the  river,  wrenching  free, 
falls  into  the  basin  below. 

"Lie  down,  Berna,  and  hold  on  to  me!  " 

We  both  dropped  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
scow,  and  she  clasped  me  so  tightly  I  marvelled  at 
the  strength  of  her.  I  felt  her  wet  cheek  pressed  to 
mine,  her  lips  clinging  to  my  lips. 

"  Now,  dear,  just  a  moment  and  it  will  all  be 
over." 

Once  again  the  angry  thunder  of  the  waters.  The 
scow  took  them  nose  on,  riding  gallantly.  Again 
we  were  tossed  like  a  feather  In  a  whirlwind,  pitch- 
forked from  wrath  to  wrath.  Once  more,  swinging, 
swerving,  straining,  we  pelted  on.  On  pinnacles  of 
terror  our  hearts  poised  nakedly.  The  waters 
danced  a  fiery  saraband;  each  wave  was  a  demon 
lashing  at  us  as  we  passed;  or  again  they  were  like 
fear-maddened  horses  with  whipping  manes  of  flame. 
We  clutched  each  other  convulsively.  Would  it 
never,  never  end    .    .    .   then    .    .    .    then    .    .    . 

It  seemed  the  last  had  come.  Up,  up  we  went.  We 
seemed  to  hover  uncertainly,  tilted,  hair-poised  over 
a  yawning  gulf.  Were  we  going  to  upset?  Mental 
agony  screamed  in  me.  But,  no !  We  righted. 
Dizzily  we  dipped  over;  steeply  we  plunged  down. 
Oh !  it  was  terrible !  We  were  In  a  hornets'  nest  of 
angry  waters  and  they  were  stinging  us  to  death; 
we  were  In  a  hollow  cavern  roofed  over  with  slabs 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  145 

of  seething  foam;  the  fiery  horses  were  trampling  us 
under  their  myriad  hoofs.  I  gave  up  all  hope.  I 
felt  the  girl  faint  in  my  arms.  How  long  it  seemed! 
I  wished  for  the  end.  The  flying  hammers  of  hell 
were  pounding  us,  pounding  us — Oh,  God!  Oh, 
God!   .    .    . 

Then,  swamped  from  bow  to  stern,  half  turned 
over,  wrecked  and  broken,  we  swept  into  the  peaceful 
basin  of  the  river  below. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

On  the  flats  around  the  Whitehorse  Rapids  was  a 
great  largess  of  wild  flowers.  The  shooting  stars 
gladdened  the  glade  with  gold;  the  bluebells  brimmed 
the  woodland  hollow  with  amethyst;  the  fire-weed 
splashed  the  hills  with  the  pink  of  coral.  Daintily 
swinging,  like  clustered  pearls,  were  the  petals  of  the 
orchid.  In  glorious  profusion  were  begonias,  vio- 
lets, and  Iceland  poppies,  and  all  was  in  a  setting 
of  the  keenest  emerald.  But  over  the  others  dom- 
inated the  wild  rose,  dancing  everywhere  and  fling- 
ing its  perfume  to  the  joyful  breeze. 

Boats  and  scows  were  lined  up  for  miles  along  the 
river  shore.  On  the  banks  water-soaked  outfits  lay 
drying  in  the  sun.  We,  too,  had  shipped  much  water 
in  our  passage,  and  a  few  days  would  be  needed  to 
dry  out  again.  So  it  was  that  I  found  some  hours 
of  idleness  and  was  able  to  see  a  good  deal  of 
Berna. 

Madam  Winklestein  I  found  surprisingly  gracious. 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  in  her  teeth,  like  white  quartz, 
the  creviced  gold  gleamed.  She  had  a  smooth,  flat- 
tering way  with  her  that  disarmed  enmity.  Winkle- 
stein, too,  had  conveniently  forgotten  our  last  inter- 
view, and  extended  to  me  the  paw  of  spurious  friend- 
ship.    I  was  free  to  see  Berna  as  much  as  I  chose. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  we  rambled  among  the 

146 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  147 

woods  and  hills,  picking  wild  flowers  and  glad  al- 
most with  the  joy  of  children.  In  these  few  days 
I  noted  a  vast  change  in  the  girl.  Her  cheeks,  pale 
as  the  petals  of  the  wild  orchid,  seemed  to  steal  the 
tints  of  the  briar-rose,  and  her  eyes  beaconed  with 
the  radiance  of  sun-waked  skies.  It  was  as  if  in  the 
poor  child  a  long  stifled  capacity  for  joy  was  glow- 
ing into  being. 

One  golden  day,  with  her  cheeks  softly  flushed, 
her  eyes  shining,  she  turned  to  me. 

"  Oh,  I  could  be  so  happy  if  I  only  had  a  chance, 
if  I  only  had  the  chance  other  girls  have.  It  would 
take  so  little  to  make  me  the  happiest  girl  in  the 
world — just  to  have  a  home,  a  plain,  simple  home 
where  all  was  sunshine  and  peace;  just  to  have  the 
commonest  comforts,  to  be  care-free,  to  love  and  be 
loved.  That  would  be  enough."  She  sighed  and 
went  on : 

"  Then  if  I  might  have  books,  a  little  music, 
flowers — oh,  it  seems  like  a  dream  of  heaven;  as  well 
might  I  sigh  for  a  palace." 

"  No  palace  could  be  too  fair  for  you,  Berna,  no 
prince  too  noble.  Some  day,  your  prince  will  come, 
and  you  will  give  him  that  great  love  I  told  you  of 
once." 

Swiftly  a  shadow  came  into  the  bright  eyes,  the 
sweet  mouth  curved  pathetically. 

"  Not  even  a  beggar  will  seek  me,  a  poor  name- 
less girl  travelling  in  the  train  of  dishonour  .  .  . 
and  again,  I  will  never  love." 

"  Yes,  you  will  indeed,  girl — infinitely,  supremely. 


148  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

I  know  you,  Berna;  you'll  love  as  few  women  do. 
Your  dearest  will  be  all  your  world,  his  smile  your 
heaven,  his  frown  your  death.  Love  was  at  the 
fashioning  of  you,  dear,  and  kissed  your  lips  and 
sent  you  forth,  saying,  '  There  goeth  my  hand- 
maiden.' " 

I  thought  for  a  while  ere  I  went  on. 

"  You  cared  for  your  grandfather;  you  gave  him 
your  whole  heart,  a  love  full  of  self-sacrifice,  of  re- 
nunciation. Now  he  is  gone,  you  will  love  again, 
but  the  next  will  be  to  the  last  as  wine  Is  to  water. 
And  the  day  will  come  when  you  will  love  grandly. 
Yours  will  be  a  great,  consuming  passion  that  knows 
no  limit,  no  assuagement.  It  will  be  your  glory  and 
your  shame.  For  him  will  your  friends  be  foes, 
your  light  darkness.  You  will  go  through  fire  and 
water  for  your  beloved's  sake;  your  parched  lips 
will  call  his  name,  your  frail  hands  cling  to  him  in 
the  shadow  of  death.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  Love 
has  set  you  apart.  You  will  immolate  yourself  on 
his  altars.  You  will  dare,  defy  and  die  for  him. 
I'm  sorry  for  you,  Berna." 

Her  face  hung  down,  her  lips  quivered.  As  for 
me,  I  was  surprised  at  my  words  and  scarce  knew 
what  I  was  saying. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

"  If  ever  I  loved  like  that,  the  man  I  loved  must 
be  a  king  among  men,. a  hero,  almost  a  god." 

"Perhaps,  Berna,  perhaps;  but  not  needfully. 
He  may  be  a  grim  man  with  a  face  of  power  and 
passion,  a  virile,  dominant  brute,  but — well,  I  think 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  149 

he  will  be  more  of  a  god.     Let's  change  the  sub- 
ject." 

I  found  she  had  all  the  sad  sophistication  of  the 
lowly-born,  yet  with  it  an  invincible  sense  of  purity, 
a  delicate  horror  of  the  physical  phases  of  love. 
She  was  a  finely  motived  creature  with  impossible 
ideals,  but  out  of  her  stark  knowledge  of  life  she 
was  naively  outspoken. 

Once  I  asked  of  her: 

"  Berna,  if  you  had  to  choose  between  death  and 
dishonour,  which  would  you  prefer?" 

"  Death,  of  course,"  she  answered  promptly. 

"  Death's  a  pretty  hard  proposition,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"No,  it's  easy;  physical  death,  compared  with 
the  other,   compared  with   moral  death." 

She  was  very  emphatic  and  angry  with  me  for 
my  hazarded  demur.  In  an  atmosphere  of  disillu- 
sionment and  moral  miasma  she  clung  undauntedly 
to  her  ideals.  Never  was  such  a  brave  spirit,  so 
determined  in  goodness,  so  upright  in  purity,  and  I 
blessed  her  for  her  unfaltering  words.  "  May  such 
sentiments  as  yours,"  I  prayed,  "  be  ever  mine.  In 
doubt,  despair,  defeat,  oh  Life,  take  not  away  from 
me  my  faith  in  the  pure  heart  of  woman!  " 

Often  I  watched  her  thoughtfully,  her  slim,  well- 
poised  figure,  her  grey  eyes  that  were  fuller  of  soul 
than  any  eyes  I  have  ever  seen,  her  brown  hair 
wherein  the  sunshine  loved  to  pick  out  threads  of 
gold,  her  delicate  features  with  their  fine  patrician 
quahty.     We  were   dreamers  twain,   but  while   my 


150  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

outlook  was  gay  with  hope,  hers  was  dark  with  de- 
spair. Since  the  episode  of  the  scow  I  had  never 
ventured  to  kiss  her,  but  had  treated  her  with  a 
curious  reserve,  respect  and  courtesy. 

Indeed,  I  was  diagnosing  my  case,  wondering  if 
I  loved  her,  affirming,  doubting  on  a  very  see-saw 
of  indetermination.  When  with  her  I  felt  for  her 
an  intense  fondness  and  at  times  an  almost  irrespon- 
sible tenderness.  My  eyes  rested  longingly  on  her, 
noting  with  tremulous  joy  the  curves  and  shading 
of  her  face,  and  finding  in  its  very  defects,  beauties. 

When  I  was  away  from  her — oh,  the  easeless 
longing  that  was  almost  pain,  the  fanciful  elabora- 
tion of  our  last  talk,  the  hint  of  her  graces  in  bird 
and  flower  and  tree !  I  wanted  her  wildly,  and  the 
thought  of  a  world  empty  of  her  was  monstrous.  I 
wondered  how  in  the  past  we  had  both  existed  and 
how  I  had  lived,  carelessly,  happy  and  serenely  in- 
different. I  tried  to  think  of  a  time  when  she  should 
no  longer  have  power  to  make  my  heart  quicken  with 
joy  or  contract  with  fear — and  the  thought  of  such 
a  state  was  insufferable  pain.  Was  I  in  love?  Poor, 
fatuous  fool !  I  wanted  her  more  than  everything 
else  in  all  the  world,  yet  I  hesitated  and  asked  myself 
the  question. 

Hundreds  of  boats  and  scows  were  running  the 
rapids,  and  we  watched  them  with  an  untiring  fas- 
cination. That  was  the  most  exciting  spectacle  in 
the  whole  world.  The  issue  was  life  or  death,  ruin 
or  salvation,  and  from  dawn  till  dark,  and  with 
every  few  minutes  of  the  day,  was  the  breathless 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  151 

climax  repeated.  The  faces  of  the  actors  were  sick, 
with  dread  and  anxiety.  It  was  curious  to  study 
the  various  expressions  of  the  human  countenance 
unmasked  and  confronted  with  gibbering  fear.  Yes, 
It  was  a  vnvid  drama,  a  drama  of  cheers  and  tears, 
always  thrilling  and  often  tragic.  Every  day  were 
bodies  dragged  ashore.  The  rapids  demanded  their 
tribute.  The  men  of  the  trail  must  pay  the  toll. 
Sullen  and  bloated  the  river  disgorged  Its  prey,  and 
the  dead,  without  prayer  or  pause,  were  thrown 
Into  nameless  graves. 

On  our  first  day  at  the  rapids  we  met  the  Half- 
breed,  He  was  on  the  point  of  starting  down- 
stream. Where  was  the  Bank  clerk?  Oh,  yes;  they 
had  upset  coming  through;  when  last  he  had  seen 
little  PInklove  he  was  struggling  In  the  water.  How- 
ever, they  expected  to  get  the  body  every  hour.  He 
had  paid  two  men  to  find  and  bury  it.  He  had  no 
time  to  wait. 

We  did  not  blame  him.  In  those  wild  days  of 
headstrong  hurry  and  gold-delirium  human  life 
meant  little.  "  Another  floater,"  one  would  say, 
and  carelessly  turn  away.  A  callousness  to  death 
that  was  almost  mediaeval  was  In  the  air,  and  the 
friends  of  the  dead  hurried  on,  the  richer  by  a  part- 
ner's outfit.  It  was  all  new,  strange,  sinister  to  me, 
this  unveiling  of  life's  naked  selfishness  and  lust. 

Next  morning  they  found  the  body,  a  poor,  shape- 
less, sodden  thing  with  such  a  crumpled  skull.  My 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  sweet-faced  girl  who  had 
wept  so  bitterly  at  his  going.     Even  then,  maybe, 


152  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

she  was  thinking  of  him,  fondly  dreaming  of  his 
return,  seeing  the  glow  of  triumph  in  his  boyish  eyes. 
She  would  wait  and  hope;  then  she  would  wait  and 
despair;  then  there  would  be  another  white-faced 
woman  saying,  "  He  went  to  the  Klondike,  and  never 
came  back.     We  don't  know  what  became  of  him." 

Verily,  the  way  of  the  gold-trail  was  cruel. 

Bema  was  with  me  when  they  buried  him. 

"Poor  boy,  poor  boy!  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  poor  little  beggar !  He  was  so  quiet  and 
gentle.  He  was  no  man  for  the  trail.  It's  a  funny 
world." 

The  coffin  was  a  box  of  unplaned  boards  loosely 
nailed  together,  and  the  men  were  for  putting  him 
into  a  grave  on  top  of  another  coffin.  I  protested, 
so  sullenly  they  proceeded  to  dig  a  new  grave. 
Berna  looked  very  unhappy,  and  when  she  saw  that 
crude,  shapeless  pine  coffin  she  broke  down  and  cried 
bitterly. 

At  last  she  dried  her  tears  and  with  a  happier 
look  in  her  eyes  bade  me  wait  a  little  until  she  re- 
turned. Soon  again  she  came  back,  carrying  some 
folds  of  black  sateen  over  her  arm.  As  she  ripped 
at  this  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  I  noticed  there  was  a 
deep  frilling  to  it.  Also  a  bright  blush  came  into 
her  cheek  at  the  curious  glance  I  gave  to  the  some- 
what skimpy  lines  of  her  skirt.  But  the  next  in- 
stant she  was  busy  stretching  and  tacking  the  black 
material  over  the  coffin. 

The  men  had  completed  the  new  grave.  It  was 
only  three  feet  deep,  but  the  water  coming  in  had 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  153 

prevented  them  from  digging  further.  As  we  laid 
the  coffin  in  the  hole  it  looked  quite  decent  now  in  its 
black  covering.  It  floated  on  the  water,  but  after 
some  clods  had  been  thrown  down,  it  sank  with  many 
gurglings.  It  was  as  if  the  dead  man  protested 
against  his  bitter  burial.  We  watched  the  grave- 
diggers  throw  a  few  more  shovelsful  of  earth  over 
the  place,  then  go  off  whistling.  Poor  little  Berna  1 
she  cried  steadily.     At  last  she  said: 

"  Let's  get  some  flowers." 

So  out  of  briar-roses  she  fashioned  a  cross  and  a 
wreath,  and  we  laid  them  reverently  on  the  muddy 
heap  that  marked  the  Bank  clerk's  grave. 

Oh,  the  pitiful  mockery  of  it! 


CHAPTER  XV 

Soon  I  knew  that  Berna  and  I  must  part,  and  but 
two  nights  later  it  came.  It  was  near  midnight,  yet 
in  no  ways  dark,  and  everywhere  the  camp  was  astir. 
We  were  sitting  by  the  river,  I  remember,  a  little 
way  from  the  boats.  Where  the  sun  had  set,  the 
sky  was  a  luminous  veil  of  ravishing  green,  and  in 
the  elusive  light  her  face  seemed  wanly  sweet  and 
dreamlike. 

A  sad  spirit  rustled  amid  the  shivering  willows 
and  a  great  sadness  had  come  over  the  girl.  All 
the  happiness  of  the  past  few  days  seemed  to  have 
ebbed  away  from  her  and  left  her  empty  of 
hope.  As  she  sat  there,  silent  and  with  hands 
clasped,  it  was  as  if  the  shadows  that  for  a  little 
had  lifted,  now  enshrouded  her  with  a  greater 
gloom. 

"  Tell  me  your  trouble,  Berna." 

She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  wide  as  If  trying  to 
read  the  future. 

"  Nothing." 

Her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  there  is,  I  know.     Tell  me,  won't  you?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"  What's  the  matter,  little  chum?  " 

"  It's  nothing;  it's  only  my  foolishness.  If  I  tell 
you,  it  wouldn't  help  me  any.     And  then — It  doesn't 

154 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  155 

matter.  You  wouldn't  care.  Why  should  you 
care?" 

She  turned  away  from  me  and  seemed  absorbed 
in  bitter  thought. 

"  Care!  why,  yes,  I  would  care;  I  do  care.  You 
know  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  help  you. 
You  know  I  would  be  unhappy  if  you  were  unhappy. 
You  know " 

"  Then  it  would  only  worry  you." 

She  was  regarding  me  anxiously, 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me,  Berna.  It  will  worry  me 
indeed  if  you  don't." 

Once  more  she  refused.  I  pleaded  with  her 
gently.  I  coaxed,  I  entreated.  She  was  very  re- 
luctant, yet  at  last  she  yielded. 

"Well,  if  I  must,"  she  said;  "but  it's  all  so  sor- 
did, so  mean,  I  hate  myself;  I  despise  myself  that 
I  should  have  to  tell  it." 

She  kneaded  a  tiny  handkerchief  nervously  in  her 
fingers. 

"  You  know  how  nice  Madam  Winklestein's  been 
to  me  lately — bought  me  new  clothes,  given  me 
trinkets.  Well,  there's  a  reason — she's  got  her  eye 
on  a  man  for  me." 

I  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Yes;  you  know  she's  let  us  go  together — it's  all 
to  draw  him  on.  Oh,  couldn't  you  see  it?  Didn't 
you  suspect  something?  You  don't  know  how  bit- 
terly they  hate  you." 

I  bit  my  lip. 

"Who's  the  man?" 


156  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Jack  Locasto." 

I  started. 

"Have  you  heard  of  him?"  she  asked.  "He's 
got  a  million-dollar  claim  on  Bonanza." 

Had  I  heard  of  him !  Who  had  not  heard  of 
Black  Jack,  his  spectacular  poker  plays,  his  meteoric 
rise,  his  theatric  display? 

"  Of  course  he's  married,"  she  went  on,  "  but  that 
doesn't  matter  up  here.  There's  such  a  thing  as 
a  Klondike  marriage,  and  they  say  he  behaves  well 
to  his  discarded  mis " 

"  Berna !  "  angry  and  aghast,  I  had  stopped  her. 
*'  Never  let  me  hear  you  utter  that  word.  Even  to 
say  it  seems  pollution." 

She   laughed   harshly,   bitterly. 

"  What's  this  whole  life  but  pollution?  .  .  , 
Well,  anyway,  he  wants  me." 

"  But  you  wouldn't,  surely  you  wouldn't?  " 

She  turned  on  me  fiercely. 

*'  What  do  yt)u  take  me  for?  Surely  you  know 
me  better  than  that.  Oh,  you  almost  make  me  hate 
you." 

Suddenly  she  pressed  the  little  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  She  fell  to  sobbing  convulsively.  Vainly 
I  tried  to  soothe  her,  whispering: 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  tell  me  all  about  it.  I'm  sorry, 
girl,  I'm  sorry." 

She  ceased  crying.  She  went  on  in  her  fierce, 
excited  way. 

"  He  came  to  the  restaurant  in  Bennett.  He  used 
to  watch  me  a  lot.     His  eyes  were  always  following 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  157 

me.  I  was  afraid.  I  trembled  when  I  served  him. 
He  liked  to  see  me  tremble,  it  gave  him  a  feeling 
of  power.  Then  he  took  to  giving  me  presents,  a 
diamond  ring,  a  heart-shaped  locket,  costly  gifts.  I 
wanted  to  return  them,  but  she  wouldn't  let  me,  took 
them  from  me,  put  them  away.  Then  he  and  she 
had  long  talks.  I  know  it  was  all  about  me.  That 
was  why  I  came  to  you  that  night  and  begged  you 
to  marry  me — to  save  me  from  him.  Now  it's  gone 
from  bad  to  worse.  The  net's  closing  round  me  in 
spite  of  my  flutterings." 

"  But  he  can't  get  you  against  your  will,"  I  cried. 

"  No !  no !  but  he'll  never  give  up.  He'll  try  so 
long  as  I  resist  him.  I'm  nice  to  him  just  to  humour 
him  and  gain  time.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I 
fear  him.  They  say  he  always  gets  his  way  with 
women.  He's  masterly  and  relentless.  There's  a 
cold,  sneering  command  in  his  smile.  You  hate  him 
but  you  obey  him." 

"  He's  an  immoral  monster,  Berna.  He  spares 
neither  time  nor  money  to  gratify  his  whims  where 
a  woman  is  concerned.     And  he  has  no  pity." 

"  I  know,   I  know." 

"  He's  intensely  masculine,  handsome  in  a  vivid, 
gipsy  sort  of  way;  big,  strong  and  compelling,  but 
a  callous  libertine." 

"  Yes,  he's  all  that.  And  can  you  wonder  then 
my  heart  is  full  of  fear,  that  I  am  distracted,  that 
I  asked  you  what  I  did?  He  is  relentless  and  of  all 
women  he  wants  me.  He  would  break  me  on  the 
wheel  of  dishonour.     Oh,  God!" 


158  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Her  face  grew  almost  tragic  in  its  despair. 

"  And  everything's  against  me;  they're  all  helping 
him.  I  haven't  a  single  friend,  not  one  to  stand 
by  me,  to  aid  me.  Once  I  thought  of  you,  and  you 
failed  me.  Can  you  wonder  I'm  nearly  crazy  with 
the  terror  of  it?  Can  you  wonder  I  was  desperate 
enough  to  ask  you  to  save  me?  I'm  all  alone,  friend- 
less, a  poor,  weak  girl.  No,  I'm  wrong.  I've  one 
friend — death ;  and  I'll  die,  I'll  die,  I  swear  it,  before 
I  let  him  get  me." 

Her  words  came  forth  in  a  torrent,  half  choked 
by  sobs.  It  was  hard  to  get  her  calmed.  Never 
had  I  thought  her  capable  of  such  force,  such  pas- 
sion. I  was  terribly  distressed  and  at  a  loss  how 
to  comfort  her. 

"  Hush,  Berna,"  I  pleaded,  "  please  don't  say 
such  things.  Remember  you  have  a  friend  in  me, 
one  that  would  do  anything  in  his  power  to  help 
you." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment. 

"  How  can  you  help  me?  " 

I  held  both  of  her  hands  firmly,  looking  into  her 
eyes. 

"  By  marrying  you.  Will  you  marry  me,  dear? 
Will  you  be  my  wife?  " 

"No!" 

I  started.     "  Berna  !  " 

"  No !  I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  you  were 
the  last  man  left  in  the  world,"  she  cried  vehe- 
mently. 

"Why?"     I  tried  to  be  cabi. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  159 

"Why!  why,  you  don't  love  me;  you  don't  care 
for  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  Berna.  I  do  indeed,  girl.  Care  for 
you !  Well,  I  care  so  much  that — I  beg  you  to 
marry  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  you  don't  love  me  right,  not  in 
your  great,  grand  way.  Not  in  the  way  you  told 
me  of.  Oh,  I  know;  it's  part  pity,  part  friendship. 
It  would  be  different  if  I  cared  in  the  same  way,  if — 
if  I  didn't  care  so  very  much  more." 

"  You  do,  Berna;  you  love  me  like  that?  " 

"  How  do  I  know?  How  can  I  tell?  How  can 
any  of  us  tell?  " 

"  No,  dear,"  I  said,  "  love  has  no  limits,  no 
bounds,  it  is  always  holding  something  in  reserve. 
There  are  yet  heights  beyond  the  heights,  that  mock 
our  climbing,  never  perfection;  no  great  love  but 
might  have  been  eclipsed  by  a  greater.  There's  a 
master  key  to  every  heart,  and  we  poor  fools  delude 
ourselves  with  the  idea  we  are  opening  all  the  doors. 
We  are  on  sufferance,  we  are  only  understudies  in 
the  love  drama,  but  fortunately  the  star  seldom  ap- 
pears on  the  scene.     However,  this  I  know " 

I  rose  to  my  feet. 

"  Since  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  you,  I  loved  you. 
Long  before  I  ever  met  you,  I  loved  you.  I  was 
just  waiting  for  you,  waiting.  At  first  I  could  not 
understand,  I  did  not  know  what  it  meant,  but  now 
I  do,  beyond  the  peradventure  of  a  doubt;  there 
never  was  any  but  you,  never  will  be  any  but  you. 
Since    the    beginning    of    time    it    was    all    planned 


i6o  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

that  I  should  love  you.  And  you,  how  do  you 
care?  " 

She  stood  up  to  hear  my  words.  She  would  not 
let  jne  touch  her,  but  there  was  a  great  light  in  her 
eyes.  Then  she  spoke  and  her  voice  was  vibrant 
with  passion,  all  indifference  gone  from  it. 

"  Oh,  you  blind!  you  coward!  Couldn't  you  see? 
Couldn't  you  feel?  That  day  on  the  scow  it  came 
to  me — ^Love.  It  was  such  as  I  had  never  dreamed 
of,  rapture,  ecstasy,  anguish.  Do  you  know  what 
I  wished  as  we  went  through  the" rapids?  I  wished 
that  it  might  be  the  end,  that  in  such  a  supreme  mo- 
ment we  might  go  down  clinging  together,  and  that 
in  death  I  might  hold  you  in  my  arms.  Oh,  if  you'd 
only  been  like  that  afterwards,  met  love  open-armed 
with  love.  But,  no  1  you  slipped  back  to  friendship. 
I  feel  as  if  there  were  a  barrier  of  ice  between  us  now. 
I  will  try  never  to  care  for  you  any  more.  Now 
leave  me,  leave  me,  for  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again." 

"  Yes,  you  will,  you  must,  you  must,  Berna.  I'd 
sell  my  immortal  soul  to  win  that  love  from  you, 
my  dearest,  my  dearest;  I'd  crawl  around  the  world 
to  kiss  your  shadow.  If  you  called  to  me  I  would 
come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  through  storm  and 
darkness,  to  your  side.  I  love  you  so,  I  love  you 
so." 

I  crushed  her  to  me,  I  kissed  her  madly,  yet  she 
was  cold. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  than  fine  words?  " 
she  asked. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  i6i 

"  Marry  me,  marry  me,"  I  repeated. 

"Now?" 

Now !  I  hesitated  again.  The  suddenness  of  it 
was  like  a  cold  douche.  God  knows,  I  burned  for 
the  girl,  yet  somehow  convention  clamped  me. 

"  Now  if  you  wish,"  I  faltered;  "  but  better  when 
we  get  to  Dawson.  Better  when  I've  made  good 
up  there.  Give  me  one  year,  Berna,  one  year  and 
then " 

"One  year!" 

The  sudden  gleam  of  hope  vanished  from  her  eyes. 
For  the  third  time  I  was  failing  her,  yet  my  cursed 
prudence  overrode  me. 

*'  Oh,  it  will  pass  swiftly,  dear.  You  will  be  quite 
safe.     I  will  be  near  you  and  watch  over  you." 

I  reassured  her,  anxiously  explaining  how  much 
better  it  would  be  if  we  waited  a  little. 

"  One  year !  "  she  repeated,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
her  voice  was  toneless.  Then  she  turned  to  me  in  a 
sudden  spate  of  passion,  her  face  pleading,  furrowed, 
wretchedly  sad. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  love  you  better  than 
the  whole  world,  but  I  hoped  you  would  care  enough 
for  me  to  marry  me  now.  It  would  have  been  best, 
believe  me.  I  thought  you  would  rise  to  the  occa- 
sion, but  you've  failed  me.  Well,  be  it  so,  we'll  wait 
one  year." 

"Yes,  believe  me,  trust  me,  dear;  it  will  be  all 
right.  I'll  work  for  you,  slave  for  you,  think  only 
of  you,  and  In  twelve  short  months — I'll  give  my 
whole  life  to  make  you  happy." 


i62  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"Will  you,  dear?  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  now. 
,    .    .    I've  loved  you." 

*^^  ^tf  ^?  ^^  ^^ 

*^  ^^  ^^  ^^  ^« 

All  that  night  I  wrestled  with  myself.  I  felt  I 
ought  to  marry  her  at  once  to  shield  her  from  the 
dangers  that  encompassed  her.  She  was  like  a  lamb 
among  a  pack  of  wolves.  I  juggled  with  my  con- 
science. I  was  young  and  marriage  to  me  seemed 
such  a  terribly  all-important  step. 

Yet  in  the  end  my  better  nature  triumphed,  and 
ere  the  camp  was  astir  I  arose.  I  was  going  to  marry 
Berna  that  day.  A  feeling  of  relief  came  over  me. 
How  had  it  ever  seemed  possible  to  delay?  I  was 
elated   beyond   measure. 

I  hurried  to  tell  her,  I  pictured  her  joy.  I  was 
almost  breathless.  Love  words  trembled  on  m.y 
tongue  tip.  It  seemed  to  me  I  could  not  bear  to 
wait  a  moment. 

Then  as  I  reached  the  place  where  they  had  rested 
I  gazed  unbelievingly.  A  sickening  sense  of  loss  and 
failure  crushed  me. 

For  the  scow  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

It  was  three  days  before  we  made  a  start  again,  and 
to  me  each  day  was  Hke  a  year.  I  chafed  bitterly 
at  the  delay.  Would  those  sacks  of  flour  never  dry? 
Longingly  I  gazed  down  the  big,  blue  Yukon  and 
cursed  the  current  that  was  every  moment  carrying 
her  farther  from  me.  Why  her  sudden  departure? 
I  had  no  doubt  it  was  enforced.  I  dreaded  danger. 
Then  in  a  while  T  grew  calmer.  I  was  foolish  to 
worr>\  She  was  safe  enough.  We  would  meet  in 
Dawson. 

At  last  we  were  under  way.  Once  more  we  sped 
down  that  devious  river,  now  swirling  under  the 
shadow  of  a  steep  bank,  now  steering  around  a  sand- 
spit.  The  scenery  was  hideous  to  me,  bluffs  of  clay 
with  pines  peeping  over  their  rims,  willow-fringed 
flats,  swamps  of  niggerhead,  ugly  drab  hills  in  end- 
less monotony. 

How  full  of  kinks  and  hooks  was  the  river!  How 
vicious  with  snags !  How  treacherous  with  eddies ! 
It  was  beginning  to  bulk  in  my  thoughts  almost  like 
an  obsession.  Then  one  day  Lake  Labarge  burst 
on  my  delighted  eyes.    The  trail  was  nearing  its  end. 

Once  more  with  swelling  sail  we  drove  before  the 
wind.  Once  more  we  were  in  a  fleet  of  Argonaut 
boats,  and  now,  with  the  goal  in  sight,  each  man  re- 
doubled his  efforts.     Perhaps  the  rich  ground  would 

163 


i64  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

all  be  gone  ere  we  reached  the  valley.  Maddening 
thought  after  what  we  had  endured!  We  must  get 
on. 

There  was  not  a  man  in  all  that  fleet  but  Imagined 
that  fortune  awaited  him  with  open  arms.  They 
talked  exultantly.  Their  eyes  shone  with  the  gold- 
lust.  They  strained  at  sweep  and  oar.  To  be  beaten 
at  the  last !  Oh,  it  was  inconceivable !  A  tigerish 
eagerness  filled  them;  a  panic  of  fear  and  cupidity 
spurred  them  on. 

Labarge  was  a  dream  lake,  mirroring  noble  moun- 
tains in  its  depths  (for  soon  after  we  made  it,  a  dead 
calm  fell).  But  we  had  no  eyes  for  its  beauty.  The 
golden  magnet  was  drawing  us  too  strongly  now. 
We  cursed  that  exquisite  serenity  that  made  us  sweat 
at  the  oars;  we  cursed  the  wind  that  never  would 
arise;  the  currents  that  always  were  against  us.  In 
that  breathless  tranquillity  myriads  of  mosquitoes 
assailed  us,  blinded  us,  covered  our  food  as  we  ate, 
made  our  lives  a  perfect  hell  of  misery.  Yet  the 
trail  was  nearing  its  finish. 

What  a  relief  it  was  when  a  sudden  storm  came 
up !  White-caps  tossed  around  us,  and  the  wind 
drove  us  on  a  precipitous  shore,  so  that  we  nearly 
came  to  a  sorry  end.  But  it  was  over  at  last,  and 
we  swept  on  Into  the  Thirty-mile  River. 

A  furious,  hurling  stream  was  this,  that  matched 
our  mad,  impatient  mood;  but  it  was  staked  with 
hidden  dangers.  We  gripped  our  weary  oars. 
Keenly  alert  we  had  to  be,  steering  and  watching  for 
rocks  that  would  have  ripped  us  from  bow  to  stern. 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  165 

There  was  a  famously  terrible  one,  on  which  scows 
smashed  like  egg-shells  under  a  hammer,  and  we 
missed  it  by  a  bare  hand's-breadth.  I  felt  sick  to 
think  of  our  bitterness  had  we  piled  up  on  it.  That 
was  an  evil,  ugly  river,  full  of  capricious  turns  and 
eddies,  and  the  bluffs  were  high  and  steep. 

Hootalinqua,  Big  Salmon,  Little  Salmon,  these  are 
names  to  me  now.  All  I  can  remember  is  long  days 
of  toil  at  the  oar,  fighting  the  growing  obsession  of 
mosquitoes,  ever  pressing  on  to  the  golden  valley. 
The  ceaseless  strain  was  beginning  to  tell  on  us. 
We  suffered  from  rheumatism,  we  barked  with  cold. 
Oh,  we  were  weary,  weary,  yet  the  trail  was  nearing 
its  end. 

One  sunlit  Sabbath  evening  I  remember  well.  We 
were  drifting  along  and  we  came  on  a  lovely  glade 
where  a  creek  joined  the  river.  It  was  a  green,  vel- 
vety, sparkling  place,  and  by  the  creek  were  two  men 
whipsawing  lumber.  We  hailed  them  jauntily  and 
asked  them  if  they  had  found  prospects.  Were  they 
getting  out  lumber  for  sluice-boxes? 

One  of  the  men  came  forward.  He  was  very 
tired,  very  quiet,  very  solemn.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  we 
are  sawing  out  a  coffin  for  our  dead." 

Then  we  saw  a  limp  shape  in  their  boat  and  we 
hurried  on,  awed  and  abashed. 

The  river  was  mud  colour  now,  swirling  in  great 
eddies  or  convulsed  from  below  with  sudden  up- 
heavals. Drifting  on  that  oily  current  one  seemed 
to  be  quite  motionless,  and  only  the  gliding  banks 
assured  us  of  progress.     The  country  seemed  terrible 


i66  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

to  me,  sinister,  guilty,  God-forsaken.  At  the  hori- 
zon, jagged  mountains  stabbed  viciously  at  the  sky. 

The  river  overwhelmed  me.  Sometimes  it  was  a 
stream  of  blood,  running  into  the  eye  of  the  setting 
sun,  beautiful,  yet  weird  and  menacing.  It  broad- 
ened, deepened,  and  every  day  countless  streams 
swelled  its  volume.  Islands  waded  in  it  greenly. 
Always  we  heard  it  singing,  a  seething,  hissing  noise 
supposed  to  be  the  pebbles  shuffling  on  the  bottom. 

The  days  were  insufferably  hot  and  mosquito- 
curst;  the  nights  chilly,  damp  and  mosquito-haunted. 
I  suffered  agonies  from  neuralgia.  Never  mind,  it 
would  soon  be  over.  We  were  on  our  last  lap.  The 
trail  was  near  its  end. 

Yes,  it  was  indeed  the  homestretch.  Suddenly 
sweeping  round  a  bend  we  raised  a  shout  of  joy. 
There  was  that  great  livid  scar  on  the  mountain  face 
— ^the  "  Slide,"  and  clustered  below  it  like  shells  on 
the  seashore,  an  army  of  tents.  It  was  the  gold- 
born  city. 

Trembling  with  eagerness  we  pulled  ashore.  Our 
troubles  were  over.  At  last  we  had  gained  our 
Eldorado,  thank  God,  thank  God! 

A  number  of  loafers  were  coming  to  meet  us. 
They  were  strangely  calm. 

"  How  about  the  gold?  "  said  the  Prodigal;  "  lots 
of  ground  left  to  stake?" 

One  of  them  looked  at  us  contemptuously.  He 
chewed  a  moment  ere  he  spoke. 

"  You  Cheechakers  better  git  right  home.  There 
ain't  a  foot  of  ground  to  stake.     Everything  in  sight 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  167 

was  staked  last  Fall.  The  rest  is  all  mud.  There's 
nothing  doin'  an'  there's  ten  men  for  every  job! 
The  whole  thing's  a  fake.  You  Cheechakers  better 
git  right  home." 

Yes,  after  all  our  travail,  all  our  torment,  we  had' 
better  go  right  home.  Already  many  were  prepar- 
ing to  do  so.  Yet  what  of  that  great  oncoming 
horde  of  which  we  were  but  the  vanguard?  What 
of  the  eager  army,  the  host  of  the  Cheechakos?  For 
hundreds  of  miles  were  lake  and  river  white  with 
their  grotesque  boats.  Beyond  them  again  were 
thousands  and  thousands  of  others  struggling  on 
through  mosquito-curst  morasses,  bent  under  their 
inexorable  burdens.  Reckless,  indomitable,  hope- 
inspired,  they  climbed  the  passes  and  shot  the  rapids; 
they  drowned  in  the  rivers,  they  rotted  in  the  swamps. 
Nothing  could  stay  them.  The  golden  magnet  was 
drawing  them  on;  the  spell  of  the  gold-lust  was  in 
their  hearts. 

And  this  was  the  end.  For  this  they  had  mort- 
gaged homes  and  broken  hearts.  For  this  they  had 
faced  danger  and  borne  suffering:  to  be  told  to 
return. 

The  land  was  choosing  its  own.  All  along  it  had 
weeded  out  the  weaklings.  Now  let  the  faint- 
hearted go  back.     This  land  was  only  for  the  Strong. 

Yet  it  was  sad,  so  much  weariness,  and  at  the  end 
disenchantment  and  failure. 

Verily  the  ways  of  the  gold-trail  were  cruel. 


BOOK  III 
THE  CAMP 


For  once  you've  panned   the  speckled  sand  and  seen  the 
bonny  dust, 

Its  peerless  brightness  blinds  you  like  a  spell; 
It's  little  else  you  care  about;  you  go  because  you  must, 

And  you  feel  that  you  could  follow  it  to  hell. 
You'd   follow  it   in   hunger,   and  you'd   follow  it  in  cold; 

You'd  follow  it  in  solitude  and  pain; 
And   when   you're  stiff   and   battened   down   let  some  one 
whisper  "Gold," 

You're  lief  to  rise  and  follow  it  again. 

— "  The  Prospector." 


CHAPTER  I 

I  WILL  always  remember  my  first  day  in  the  gold- 
camp.  We  were  well  in  front  of  the  Argonaut  army, 
but  already  thousands  were  in  advance  of  us.  The 
flat  at  the  mouth  of  Bonanza  was  a  congestion  of 
cabins;  shacks  and  tents  clustered  the  hillside,  scat- 
tered on  the  heights  and  massed  again  on  the  slope 
sweeping  down  to  the  Klondike.  An  intense  vitality 
charged  the  air.  The  camp  was  alive,  ahum,  vibrant 
with  fierce,  dynamic  energy. 

In  effect  the  town  was  but  one  street  stretching 
alongside  the  water  front.  It  was  amazingly  packed 
with  men  from  side  to  side,  from  end  to  end.  They 
lounged  in  the  doorways  of  oddly  assorted  buildings, 
and  jostled  each  other  on  the  dislocated  sidewalks. 
Stores  of  all  kinds,  saloons,  gambling  joints  flourished 
without  number,  and  in  one  block  alone  there  were 
half  a  dozen  dance-halls.  Yet  all  seemed  plethor- 
ically prosperous. 

Many  of  the  business  houses  were  installed  in  tents. 
That  huge  canvas  erection  was  a  mining  exchange; 
that  great  log  barn  a  dance-hall.  Dwarfish  log  cab- 
ins impudently  nestled  up  to  pretentious  three-story 
hotels.  The  effect  was  oddly  staccato.  All  was 
grotesque,  makeshift,  haphazard.  Back  of  the  main 
street  lay  the  red-light  quarter,  and  behind  it  again 
a  swamp  of  niggerheads,  the  breeding-place  of  fever 
and  mosquito. 

171 


172  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

The  crowd  that  vitalised  the  street  was  strikingly 
cosmopolitan.  Mostly  big,  bearded  fellows  they 
were,  with  here  the  full-blooded  face  of  the  saloon 
man,  and  there  the  quick,  pallid  mask  of  the  gambler. 
Women  too  I  saw  in  plenty,  bold,  free,  predacious 
creatures,  a  rustle  of  silk  and  a  reek  of  perfume.  Till 
midnight  I  wandered  up  and  down  the  long  street; 
but  there  was  no  darkness,  no  lull  in  its  clamorous 
life. 

I  was  looking  for  Berna.  My  heart  hungered  for 
her;  my  eyes  ached  for  her;  my  mind  was  so  full  of 
her  there  seemed  no  room  for  another  single  thought. 
But  it  was  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  strawstack 
to  find  her  in  that  seething  multitude.  I  knew  no 
one,  and  it  seemed  futile  to  inquire  regarding  her. 
These  keen-eyed  men  with  eager  talk  of  claims  and 
pay-dirt  could  not  help  me.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  for  it  but  to  wait.  So  with  spirits  steadily 
sinking  zerowards  I  waited. 

We  found,  indeed,  that  there  was  little  ground 
left  to  stake.  The  mining  laws  were  in  some  con- 
fusion, and  were  often  changing.  Several  creeks 
were  closed  to  location,  but  always  new  strikes  were 
being  made  and  stampedes  started.  So,  after  a  ses- 
sion of  debate,  we  decided  to  reserve  our  rights  to 
stake  till  a  good  chance  offered.  It  was  a  bitter 
awakening.  Like  all  the  rest  we  had  expected  to  get 
ground  that  was  gold  from  the  grass-roots  down. 
But  there  was  work  to  be  had,  and  we  would  not  let 
ourselves  be  disheartened. 

The  Jam-wagon  had  already  deserted  us.     He  was 


THE   TRAIL  OF   '98  173 

off  up  on  Eldorado  somewhere,  shovelling  dirt  into  a 
sluice-box  for  ten  dollars  a  day.  I  made  up  my 
mind  I  would  follow  him.  Jim  also  would  get  to 
work,  while  the  Prodigal,  we  agreed,  would  look  after 
all  our  interests,  and  stake  or  buy  a  good  claim. 

Thus  we  planned,  sitting  in  our  little  tent  near  the 
beach.  We  were  in  a  congeries  of  tents.  The  beach 
was  fast  whitening  with  them.  If  one  was  in  a  hurry 
it  was  hard  to  avoid  tripping  over  ropes  and  pegs. 
As  each  succeeding  party  arrived  they  had  to  go 
further  afield  to  find  camping-ground.  And  they 
were  arriving  in  thousands  daily.  The  shore  for  a 
mile  was  lined  five  deep  with  boats.  Scows  had  been 
hauled  high  and  dry  on  the  gravel,  and  there  the 
owners  were  living.  A  thousand  stoves  were  elo- 
quent of  beans  and  bacon.  I  met  a  man  taking 
home  a  prize,  a  porterhouse  steak.  He  was 
carrying  it  over  his  arm  like  a  towel,  paper  was  so 
scarce.  The  camp  was  a  hive  of  energy,  a  hum  of 
occupation. 

But  how  many,  after  they  had  paraded  that  mile- 
long  street  with  its  mud,  its  seething  foam  of  life, 
its  blare  of  gramophones  and  its  blaze  of  dance-halls, 
ached  for  their  southland  homes  again !  You  could 
read  the  disappointment  in  their  sun-tanned  faces. 
Yet  they  were  the  eager  navigators  of  the  lakes,  the 
reckless  amateurs  of  the  rivers.  This  was  a  some- 
thing different  from  the  trail.  It  was  as  if,  after  all 
their  efforts,  they  had  butted  up  against  a  stone  wall. 
There  was  "  nothing  doing,"  no  ground  left,  and 
only  hard  work,  the  hardest  on  earth. 


174  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

Moreover,  the  country  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  gang 
of  corrupt  officials  who  were  using  the  public  offices 
for  their  own  enrichment.  Franchises  were  being 
given  to  the  favourites  of  those  in  power,  concessions 
sold,  liquor  permits  granted,  and  abuses  of  every  kind 
practised  on  the  free  miner.  All  was  venality,  in- 
justice and  exaction. 

"Go  home,"  said  the  Man  in  the  Street;  "the 
mining  laws  are  rotten.  All  kinds  of  ground  is  tied 
up.  Even  if  you  get  hold  of  something  good,  them 
dam-robber  government  sharks  will  flim-flam  you  out 
of  it.  There's  no  square  deal  here.  They  tax  you 
to  mine;  they  tax  you  to  cut  a  tree;  they  tax  you  to 
sell  a  fish;  pretty  soon  they'll  be  taxing  you  to  breathe. 
Go  home !  " 

And  many  went,  many  of  the  trail's  most  in- 
domitable. They  could  face  hardship  and  danger, 
the  blizzards,  the  rapids,  nature  savage  and  raven- 
ing; but  when  it  came  to  craft,  graft  and  the  duplicity 
of  their  fellow  men  they  were  discouraged,  discom- 
fited. 

"  Say,  boys,  I  guess  I've  done  a  slick  piece  of 
work,"  said  the  Prodigal  with  some  satisfaction,  as 
he  entered  the  tent.  "  I've  bought  three  whole  out- 
fits on  the  beach.  Got  them  for  twenty-five  per  cent, 
less  than  the  cost  price  in  Seattle,  I'll  pull  out  a  hun- 
dred per  cent,  on  the  deal.  Now's  the  time  to  get 
in  and  buy  from  the  quitters.  They  so  soured  at 
the  whole  frame-up  they're  ready  to  pull  their  freights 
at  any  moment.  All  they  want's  to  get  away.  They 
want  to  put  a  few  thousand  miles  between  them  and 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  175 

this  garbage  dump  of  creation.  They  never  want  to 
hear  the  name  of  Yukon  again  except  as  a  cuss-word. 
I'm  going  to  keep  on  buying  outfits.  You  boys  see  if 
I  don't  clean  up  a  bunch  of  money." 

"  It's  too  bad  to  take  advantage  of  them,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  Too  bad  nothing!  That's  business;  your  neces- 
sity, my  opportunity.  Oh,  you'd  never  make  a 
money-getter,  my  boy,  this  side  of  the  millennium — 
and  you  Scotch  too." 

"  That's  nothing,"  said  Jim;  "  wait  till  I  tell  you 
of  the  deal  I  made  to-day.  You  recollect  I  packed  a 
flat-iron  among  my  stuff,  an'  you  boys  joshed  me 
about  it,  said  I  was  bughouse.  But  I  figured 
out:  there's  camp-meetin's  an'  socials  up  there, 
an'  a  nice,  dinky,  white  shirt  once  in  a  way 
goes  pretty  good.  Anyway,  thinks  I,  if  there  ain't 
no  one  else  to  dress  for  in  that  wilderness,  I'll 
dress  for  the  Almighty.  So  I  sticks  to  my  old  flat- 
iron. 

He  looked  at  us  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  then 
went  on. 

"  Well,  it  seems  there's  only  three  more  flat-irons 
in  camp,  an'  all  the  hot  sports  wantin'  boiled  shirts 
done  up,  an'  all  the  painted  Jezebels  hollerin'  to  have 
their  lingery  fixed,  an'  the  wash-ladies  just  goin'  round 
crazy  for  flat-irons.  Well,  I  didn't  want  to  sell  mine, 
but  the  old  coloured  lady  that  runs  the  Bong  Tong 
Laundry  (an'  a  sister  in  the  Lord)  came  to  me  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  an'  at  last  I  was  prevailed  on  to 
separate  from  it." 


176  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"How  much,  Jim?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  the  old 
girl,  so  I  let  her  down  easy." 

"How  much?" 

"  Well,  you  see  there's  only  three  or  four  of  them 
flat-irons  in  camp,  so  I  asked  a  hundred  an'  fifty  dol- 
lars, an'  quick's  a  flash,  she  took  me  into  a  store  an' 
paid  me  in  gold-dust." 

He  flourished  a  little  poke  of  dust  in  our  laughing 
faces. 

"That's  pretty  good,"  I  said;  "everything  seems 
topsy-turvy  up  here.  Why,  to-day  I  saw  a  man 
come  in  with  a  box  of  apples  which  the  crowd  begged 
him  to  open.  He  was  selling  those  apples  at  a  dol- 
lar apiece,  and  the  folks  were  just  fighting  to  get 
them." 

It  was  so  with  everything.  Extraordinary  prices 
ruled.  Eggs  and  candles  had  been  sold  for  a  dollar 
each,  and  potatoes  for  a  dollar  a  pound;  while  on  the 
trail  in  '97  horse-shoe  nails  were  selling  at  a  dollar  a 
nail. 

Once  more  I  roamed  the  long  street  with  that  aw- 
ful restless  agony  in  my  heart.  Where  was  she,  my 
girl,  so  precious  now  it  seemed  I  had  lost  her?  Why 
does  love  mean  so  much  to  some,  so  little  to  others? 
Perhaps  I  am  the  victim  of  an  intensity  of  tempera- 
ment, but  I  craved  for  her;  I  visioned  evils  befalling 
her;  I  pierced  my  heart  with  dagger-thrusts  of  fear 
for  her.  Oh,  if  I  only  knew  she  was  safe  and  well! 
Every  slim  woman  I  saw  in  the  distance  looked  to  be 
her,  and  made  my  heart  leap  with  emotion.     Yet  al- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  177 

ways  I  chewed  on  the  rind  of  disappointment.  There 
was  never  a  sign  of  Berna. 

In  the  agitation  and  unrest  of  my  mind  I  climbed 
the  hill  that  overshadows  the  gold-born  city.  The 
Dome  they  call  it,  and  the  face  of  it  is  vastly  scarred, 
blanched  as  by  a  cosmic  blow.  There  on  its  topmost 
height  by  a  cairn  of  stone  I  stood  at  gaze,  greatly 
awestruck. 

The  view  was  a  spacious  one,  and  of  an  over- 
whelming grandeur.  Below  me  lay  the  mighty  Yu- 
kon, here  like  a  silken  ribbon,  there  broadening  out 
to  a  pool  of  quicksilver.  It  seemed  motionless,  dead, 
like  a  piece  of  tinfoil  lying  on  a  sable  shroud. 

The  great  valley  was  preternaturally  still,  and  pall- 
like as  if  steeped  in  the  colours  of  the  long,  long  night. 
The  land  so  vast,  so  silent,  so  lifeless,  was  round  in  its 
contours,  full  of  fat  creases  and  bold  curves.  The 
mountains  were  like  sleeping  giants;  here  was  the 
swell  of  a  woman's  breast,  there  the  sweep  of  a  man's 
thigh.  And  beyond  that  huddle  of  sprawling  Titans, 
far,  far  beyond,  as  if  it  were  an  enclosing  stockade, 
was  the  jagged  outline  of  the  Rockies. 

Quite  suddenly  they  seemed  to  stand  up  against  the 
blazing  sky,  monstrous,  horrific,  smiting  the  senses 
like  a  blow.  Their  primordial  faces  were  hacked  and 
hewed  fantastically,  and  there  they  posed  in  their  im- 
memorial isolation,  virgin  peaks,  inviolate  valleys,  im- 
pregnably  desolate  and  savagely  sublime. 

And  beyond  their  stormy  crests,  surely  a  world  was 
consuming  in  the  kilns  of  chaos.  Was  ever  anything 
so  insufferably  bright  as  the  incandescent  glow  that 


178  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

brimmed  those  jagged  clefts?  That  fierce  crimson, 
was  it  not  the  hue  of  a  cooling  crucible,  that  deep  Ver- 
million the  rich  glory  of  a  rose's  heart?  Did  not 
that  tawny  orange  mind  you  of  ripe  wheat-fields  and 
the  exquisite  intrusion  of  poppies?  That  pure,  clear 
gold,  was  it  not  a  bank  of  primroses  new  washed  in 
April  rain?  What  was  that  luminous  opal  but  a 
lagoon,  a  pearly  lagoon,  with  floating  in  it  islands  of 
amber,  their  beaches  crisped  with  ruby  foam?  And, 
over  all  the  riot  of  colour,  that  shimmering  chryso- 
prase  so  tenderly  luminous — might  it  not  fitly  veil 
the  splendours  of  paradise? 

I  looked  to  where  gulped  the  mouth  of  Bonanza, 
cavernously  wide  and  filled  with  the  purple  smoke  of 
many  fires.  There  was  the  golden  valley,  silent  for 
centuries,  now  strident  with  human  cries,  vehement 
with  human  strife.  There  was  the  timbered  basin 
of  the  Klondike  bleakly  rising  to  mountains  eloquent 
of  death.  It  was  dominating,  appalling,  this  vast- 
ness  without  end,  this  unappeasable  loneliness.  Glad 
was  I  to  turn  again  to  where,  like  white  pebbles  on  a 
beach,  gleamed  the  tents  of  the  gold-born  city. 

Somewhere  amid  that  confusion  of  canvas,  that 
muddle  of  cabins,  was  Berna,  maybe  lying  In  some 
wide-eyed  vigil  of  fear,  maybe  staining  with  hopeless 
tears  her  restless  pillow.  Somewhere  down  there — 
Oh,  I  must  find  her ! 

I  returned  to  the  town.  I  was  tramping  its  long 
street  once  more,  that  street  with  its  hundreds  of  can- 
vas signs.  It  was  a  city  of  signs.  Every  place  of 
business  seemed  to  have  its  fluttering  banner,  and  be- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  179 

neath  these  banners  moved  the  ever  restless  throng. 
There  were  men  from  the  mines  in  their  flannel  shirts 
and  corduroys,  their  Stetsons  and  high  boots.  There 
were  men  from  the  trail  in  sweaters  and  mackinaws, 
German  socks  and  caps  with  ear-flaps.  But  all  were 
bronzed  and  bearded,  fleshless  and  clean-limbed.  I 
marvelled  at  the  seriousness  of  their  faces,  till  I  re- 
membered that  here  was  no  problem  of  a  languorous 
sunland,  but  one  of  grim  emergency.  It  was  a  man's 
game  up  here  in  the  North,  a  man's  game  in  a  man's 
land,  where  the  sunlight  of  the  long,  long  day  is  ever 
haunted  by  the  shadow  of  the  long,  long  night. 

Oh,  if  I  could  only  find  her!  The  land  was  a 
great  symphony;  she  the  haunting  theme  of  it. 

I  bought  a  copy  of  the  "  Nugget  "  and  went  into 
the  Sourdough  Restaurant  to  read  it.  As  I  lingered 
there  sipping  my  coffee  and  perusing  the  paper  indif- 
ferently, a  paragraph  caught  my  eye  and  made  my 
heart  glow  with  sudden  hope. 


CHAPTER  II 

Here  was  the  item: 

Jack  Locos  to  loses  $19,000. 

"One  of  the  largest  gambling  plays  that  ever  occurred 
in  Dawson  came  off  last  night  in  the  Malamute  Saloon. 
Jack  Locasto  of  Eldorado,  well  known  as  one  of  the  Klon- 
dike's wealthiest  claim-owners,  Claude  Terry  and  Charlie 
Haw  were  the  chief  actors  in  the  game,  which  cost  the  first- 
named  the  sum  of  $19,000. 

"  Lx)casto  came  to  Dawson  from  his  claim  yesterday.  It 
is  said  that  before  leaving  the  Forks  he  lost  a  sum  ranging 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  $5,000.  Last  night  he  began  play- 
ing in  the  Malamute  with  Haw  and  Terry  in  an  effort,  it  is 
supposed,  to  recoup  his  losses  at  the  Forks.  The  play  con- 
tinued nearly  all  night,  and  at  the  wind-up,  Locasto,  as 
stated  above,  was  loser  to  the  amount  of  $19,000.  This  is 
probably  the  largest  individual  loss  ever  sustained  at  one 
sitting  in  the  history  of  Klondike  poker  playing." 

Jack  Locasto!  Why  had  I  not  thought  of  him 
before?  Surely  if  any  one  knew  of  the  girl's  where- 
abouts, it  would  be  he.  I  determined  I  would  ask 
him  at  once. 

So  I  hastily  finished  my  coffee  and  inquired  of  the 
emasculated-looking  waiter  where  I  might  find  the 
Klondike  King. 

180 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  i8i 

"Oh,  Black  Jack,"  he  said:  ''well,  at  the  Green 
Bay  Tree,  or  the  Tivoli,  or  the  Monte  Carlo.  But 
there's  a  big  poker  game  on  and  he's  liable  to  be 
in  it." 

Once  more  I  paraded  the  seething  street.  It  was 
long  after  midnight,  but  the  wondrous  glow,  still 
burning  in  the  Northern  sky,  filled  the  land  with 
strange  enchantment.  In  spite  of  the  hour  the  town 
seemed  to  be  more  alive  than  ever.  Parties  with 
pack-laden  mules  were  starting  off  for  the  creeks, 
travelling  at  night  ta  avoid  tlie  heat  and  mosquitoes. 
Men  with  lean  brown  faces  trudged  sturdily  along 
carrying  extraordinary  loads  on  their  stalwart  shoul- 
ders. A  stove,  blankets,  cooking  utensils,  axe  and 
shovel  usually  formed  but  a  part  of  their  varied  ac- 
coutrement. 

Constables  of  the  Mounted  Police  were  patrolling 
the  streets.  In  the  drab  confusion  their  scarlet  tunics 
were  a  piercing  note  of  colour.  They  walked  very 
stiffly,  with  grim  mouths  and  eyes  sternly  vigilant  un- 
der the  brims  of  their  Stetsons.  Women  were  every- 
where, smoking  cigarettes,  laughing,  chaffing, 
strolling  in  and  out  of  the  wide-open  saloons.  Their 
cheeks  were  rouged,  their  eye-lashes  painted,  their 
eyes  bright  with  wine.  They  gazed  at  the  men  like 
sleek  animals,  with  looks  that  were  wanton  and  al- 
luring. A  libertine  spirit  was  in  the  air,  a  madcap 
freedom,  an  effluence  of  disdainful  sin. 

I  found  myself  by  the  stockade  that  surrounded 
the  Police  reservation.  On  every  hand  I  saw  traces 
of  a  recent  overflow  of  the  river  that  had  transformed 


i82  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

the  street  Into  a  navigable  canal.  Now  in  places 
there  were  mudholes  in  which  horses  would  flounder 
to  their  bellies.  One  of  the  Police  constables,  a  tall, 
slim  Englishman  with  a  refined  manner,  proved  to  me 
a  friend  in  need. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  my  query,  "  I  think 
I  can  find  your  man.  He's  downtown  somewhere 
with  some  of  the  big  sporting  guns.  Come  on,  we'll 
run  him  to  earth." 

As  we  walked  along  we  compared  notes,  and  he 
talked  of  himself  in  a  frank,  fwendly  way. 

"You're  not  long  out  from  the  old  country? 
Thought  not.  Left  there  myself  about  four  years 
ago — I  joined  the  Force  in  Regina.  It's  altogether 
different  '  outside,'  patrol  work,  a  free  life  on  the 
open  prairie.  Here  they  keep  one  choring  round 
barracks  most  of  the  time.  I've  been  for  six  months 
now  on  the  town  station.  I'm  not  sorry,  though. 
It's  all  devilish  interesting.  Wouldn't  have  missed 
it  for  a  farm.  When  I  write  the  people  at  home 
about  it  they  think  I'm  yarning — stringing  them,  as 
they  say  here.  The  governor's  a  clergyman.  Sent 
me  to  Harrow,  and  wanted  to  make  a  Bishop  out 
of  me.  But  I'm  restless;  never  could  study;  don't 
seem  to  fit  In,  don't  you  know." 

I  recognised  his  type,  the  clean,  frank,  breezy 
Englishman  that  has  helped  to  make  an  Empire.  He 
went  on : 

"  Yes,  how  the  old  dad  would  stare  if  I  could  only 
have  him  in  Dawson  for  a  day.  He'd  never  be  able 
to  get  things  just  in  focus  any  more.     He  would  be 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  183 

knocked  clean  ofli  the  pivot  on  which  he's  revolved 
these  thirty  years.  Seems  to  me  every  one's  trav- 
elling on  a  pivot  in  the  old  country.  It's  no  use  try- 
ing to  hammer  it  into  their  heads  there  are  more 
points  of  view  than  one.  If  you  don't  just  see  things 
as  they  see  them,  you're  troubled  with  astigmatism. 
Come,  let's  go  in  here." 

He  pushed  his  way  through  a  crowded  doorway 
and  I  followed.  It  was  the  ordinary  type  of  com- 
bined saloon  and  gambling-joint.  In  one  corner  was 
a  very  ornate  bar,  and  all  around  the  capacious  room 
were  gambling  devices  of  every  kind.  There  were 
crap-tables,  wheel  of  fortune,  the  Klondike  game, 
Keno,  stud  poker,  roulette  and  faro  outfits.  The 
place  was  chock-a-block  with  rough-looking  men, 
either  looking  on  or  playing  the  games.  The  men 
who  were  running  the  tables  wore  shades  of  green 
over  their  eyes,  and  their  strident  cries  of  "  Come  on, 
boys,"  pierced  the  smoky  air. 

In  a  corner,  presiding  over  a  stud-poker  game,  I 
was  surprised  to  see  our  old  friend  Mosher.  He 
was  dealing  with  one  hand,  holding  the  pack  del- 
icately and  sending  the  cards  with  a  dexterous  flip 
to  each  player.  Miners  were  buying  chips  from  a 
man  at  the  bar,  who  with  a  pair  of  gold  scales  was 
weighing  out  dust  in  payment. 

My  companion  pointed  to  an  inner  room  with  a 
closed  door. 

"  The  Klondike  Kings  are  in  there,  hard  at  it. 
They've  been  playing  now  for  twenty-four  hours, 
and  goodness  knows  when  they'll  let  up." 


i84  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

At  that  moment  a  peremptory  bell  rang  from  the 
room  and  a  waiter  hurried  up. 

"  There  they  are,"  said  my  friend,  as  the  door 
opened.  "  There's  Black  Jack  and  Stillwater  Willie 
and  Claude  Terry  and  Charlie  Haw." 

Eagerly  I  looked  in.  The  men  were  wearied,  their 
faces  haggard  and  ghastly  pale.  Quickly  and  coolly 
they  fingered  the  cards,  but  in  their  hollow  eyes 
burned  the  fever  of  the  game,  a  game  where  golden 
eagles  were  the  chips  and  thousand-dollar  jack-pots 
were  unremarkable.  No  doubt  they  had  lost  and  won 
greatly,  but  they  gave  no  sign.  What  did  it  matter? 
In  the  dumps  waiting  to  be  cleaned  up  were  hundreds 
of  thousands  more;  while  in  the  ground  were  mil- 
lions, millions. 

All  but  Locasto  were  medium-sized  men.  Still- 
water Willie  was  in  evening-dress.  He  wore  a  red 
tie  in  which  glittered  a  huge  diamond  pin,  and  yel- 
low tan  boots  covered  with  mud. 

*'  How  did  he  get  his  name?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  you  see,  they  say  he  was  the  only  one  that 
funked  the  Whitehorse  Rapids.  He's  a  high  flier, 
all  right." 

The  other  two  were  less  striking.  Haw  was  a 
sandy-haired  man  with  shifty,  uneasy  eyes;  Terry  of 
a  bulldog  type,  stocky  and  powerful.  But  it  was 
Locasto  who  gripped  and  riveted  my  attention. 

He  was  a  massive  man,  heavy  of  limb  and  brutal  in 
strength.  There  was  a  great  spread  to  his  shoulders 
and  a  conscious  power  in  his  every  movement.  He 
had  a  square,  heavy  chin,  a  grim,  sneering  mouth,  a 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  185 

falcon  nose,  black  eyes  that  were  as  cold  as  the 
water  in  a  deserted  shaft.  His  hair  was  raven  dark, 
and  his  skin  betrayed  the  Mexican  strain  in  his  blood. 
Above  the  others  he  towered,  strikingly  masterful, 
and  I  felt  somehow  the  power  that  emanated  from 
the  man,  the  brute  force,  the  remorseless  purpose. 

Then  the  waiter  returned  with  a  tray  of  drinks  and 
the  door  was  closed. 

"  Well,  you've  seen  him  now,"  said  Chester  of  the 
Police.  "  Your  only  plan,  if  you  want  to  speak  to 
him,  is  to  wait  till  the  game  breaks  up.  When  poker 
interferes  with  your  business,  to  the  devil  with  your 
business.  They  won't  be  interrupted.  Well,  old 
man,  if  you  can't  be  good,  be  careful;  and  if  you 
want  me  any  time,  ring  up  the  town  station.  Bye, 
bye." 

He  sauntered  off.  For  a  time  I  strolled  from 
game  to  game,  watching  the  expressions  on  the  faces 
of  the  players,  and  trying  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
play.  Yet  my  mind  was  ever  on  the  closed  door  and 
my  ear  strained  to  hear  the  click  of  chips.  I  heard 
the  hoarse  murmurs  of  their  voices,  an  occasional 
oath  or  a  yawn  of  fatigue.  How  I  wished  they 
would  come  out !  Women  went  to  the  door,  peered 
in  cautiously,  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the  tune  of 
reverberated  curses.  The  big  guns  were  busy;  even 
the  ladies  must  await  their  pleasure. 

Oh,  the  weariness  of  that  waiting!  In  my  long- 
ing for  Berna  I  had  worked  myself  up  into  a  state 
that  bordered  on  distraction.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
cloud  was  in  my  brain,  obsessing  me  at  all  times.     I 


i86  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

felt  I  must  question  this  man,  though  it  raised  my 
gorge  even  to  speak  of  her  in  his  presence.  In  that 
atmosphere  of  corruption  the  thought  of  the  girl  was 
intolerably  sweet,  as  of  a  ray  of  sunshine  penetrating 
a  noisome  dungeon. 

It  was  in  the  young  morn  when  the  game  broke 
up.  The  outside  air  was  clear  as  washed  gold; 
within  it  was  foul  and  fetid  as  a  drunkard's  breath. 
Men  with  pinched  and  pallid  faces  came  out  and  in- 
haled the  breeze,  which  was  buoyant  as  champagne. 
Beneath  the  perfect  blue  of  the  spring  sky  the  river 
seemed  a  shimmer  of  violet,  and  the  banks  dipped 
down  with  the  green  of  chrysoprase. 

Already  a  boy  was  sweeping  up  the  dirty,  nicotine- 
frescoed  sawdust  from  the  floor.  (It  was  his  per- 
quisite, and  from,  the  gold  he  panned  out  he  ultimately 
made  enough  to  put  him  through  college.)  Then 
the  inner  door  opened  and  Black  Jack  appeared. 


CHAPTER  III 

He  was  wan  and  weary.  Around  his  sombre  eyes 
were  chocolate-coloured  hollows.  His  thick  raven 
hair  was  disordered.  He  had  lost  heavily,  and,  bid- 
ding a  curt  good-bye  to  the  others,  he  strode  off.  In 
a  moment  I  had  followed  and  overtaken  him. 

"  Mr.  Locasto." 

He  turned  and  gave  me  a  stare  from  his  brooding 
eyes.  They  were  vacant  as  those  of  a  dope-fiend, 
vacant  with  fatigue. 

"  Jack  Locasto's  my  name,"  he  answered  care- 
lessly. 

I  walked  alongside  him. 

*'  Well,  sir,"  I  said,  "  my  name's  Meldrum,  Athol 
Meldrum." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  the  devil  your  name  is,"  he 
broke  in  petulantly.  "  Don't  bother  me  just  now. 
I'm  tired." 

"  So  am  I,"  I  said,  "  infernally  tired;  but  it  won't 
hurt  you  to  listen  to  my  name." 

"Well,  Mr.  Athol  Meldrum,  good-day." 

His  voice  was  cold,  his  manner  galling  in  its  in- 
difference, and  a  sudden  anger  glowed  in  me. 

"Hold  on,"  I  said;  "just  a  moment.  You  can 
very  easily  do  me  an  immense  favour.     Listen  to  me." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want,"  he  demanded  roughly; 
"work?" 

t87 


i88  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 


II 


No,"  I  said,  "  I  just  want  a  scrap  of  informa- 
tion, I  came  into  the  country  with  some  Jews  the 
name  of  Winklestein.  I've  lost  track  of  them 
and  I  think  you  may  be  able  to  tell  me  where  they 


are." 


He  was  all  attention  now.  He  turned  half  round 
and  scrutinised  me  with  deliberate  intensity.  Then, 
like  a  flash,  his  rough  manner  changed.  He  was  the 
polished  gentleman,  the  San  Francisco  club-lounger, 
the  man  of  the  world. 

He  rasped  the  stubble  on  his  chin;  his  eyes  were 
bland,  his  voice  smooth  as  cream. 

"  Winklestein,"  he  echoed  reflectively,  "  Winkle- 
stein; seems  to  me  I  do  remember  the  name,  but  for 
the  life  of  me  I  can't  recall  where." 

He  was  watching  me  like  a  cat,  and  pretending  to 
think  hard. 

"  Was  there  a  girl  with  them?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said  eagerly,  "  a  young  girl." 

"  A  young  girl,  ah!  "  He  seemed  to  reflect  hard 
again.  "  Well,  my  friend,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help 
you.  I  remember  noticing  the  party  on  the  way  In, 
but  what  became  of  them  I  can't  think.  I  don't 
usually  bother  about  that  kind  of  people.  Well, 
good-night,  or  good-morning  rather.  This  Is  my 
hotel." 

He  had  half  entered  when  he  paused  and  turned 
to  me.  His  face  was  urbane,  his  voice  suave  to 
sweetness;  but  It  seemed  to  me  there  was  a  subtle 
mockery  In  his  tone. 

"  I  say,  if  I  should  hear  anything  of  them,  I'll  let 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  189 

you  know.  Your  name?  Athol  Meldrum — all 
right,  I'll  let  you  know.     Good-bye." 

He  was  gone  and  I  had  failed.  I  cursed  myself 
for  a  fool.  The  man  had  baffled  me.  Nay,  even  I 
had  hurt  myself  by  giving  him  an  inkling  of  my 
search.  Berna  seemed  further  away  from  me  than 
ever.     Home  I  went,  discouraged  and  despairful. 

Then  I  began  to  argue  with  myself.  He  must 
know  where  they  were,  and  if  he  really  had  designs 
on  the  girl  and  was  keeping  her  in  hiding  my  inter- 
view with  him  would  alarm  him.  He  would  take 
the  first  opportunity  of  warning  the  Winklesteins. 
When  would  he  do  it?  That  very  night  in  all  likeli- 
hood.    So  I  reasoned;  and  I  resolved  to  watch. 

I  stationed  myself  in  a  saloon  from  where  I  could 
command  a  view  of  his  hotel,  and  there  I  waited.  I 
think  I  must  have  watched  the  place  for  three  hours, 
but  I  know  it  was  a  weariful  business,  and  I  was 
heartsick  of  it.  Doggedly  I  stuck  to  my  post.  I 
was  beginning  to  think  he  must  have  evaded  me, 
when  suddenly  coming  forth  alone  from  the  hotel  I 
saw  my  man. 

It  was  about  midnight,  neither  light  nor  dark,  but 
rather  an  absence  of  either  quality,  and  the  Northern 
sky  was  wan  and  ominous.  In  the  crowded  street  I 
saw  Locasto's  hat  overtopping  all  others,  so  that  I 
had  no  difficulty  in  shadowing  him.  Once  he  stopped 
to  speak  to  a  woman,  once  to  light  a  cigar;  then  he 
suddenly  turned  up  a  side  street  that  ran  through  the 
red-light  district. 

He  was  walking  swiftly  and  he  took  a  path  that 


I90  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

skirted  the  swamp  behind  the  town.  I  had  no  doubt 
of  his  mission.  My  heart  began  to  beat  with  excite- 
ment. The  httle  path  led  up  the  hill,  clothed  with 
fresh  foliage  and  dotted  with  cabins.  Once  I  saw 
him  pause  and  look  round.  I  had  barely  time  to 
dodge  behind  some  bushes,  and  feared  for  a  moment 
he  had  seen  me.  But  no !  on  he  went  again  faster 
than  ever. 

I  knew  now  I  had  divined  his  errand.  He  was  at 
too  great  pains  to  cover  his  tracks.  The  trail  had 
plunged  among  a  maze  of  slender  cotton-woods,  and 
twisted  so  that  I  was  sore  troubled  to  keep  him  in 
view.  Always  he  increased  his  gait  and  I  followed 
breathlessly.  There  were  few  cabins  hereabouts;  it 
was  a  lonely  place  to  be  so  near  to  town,  very  quiet 
and  thickly  screened  from  sight.  Suddenly  he 
seemed  to  disappear,  and,  fearing  my  pursuit  was  go- 
ing to  be  futile,  I  rushed  forward. 

I  came  to  a  dead  stop.  There  was  no  one  to  be 
seen.  He  had  vanished  completely.  The  trail 
climbed  steeply  up,  twisty  as  a  corkscrew.  These 
cursed  poplars,  how  densely  they  grew !  Blindly  I 
blundered  forward.  Then  I  came  to  a  place  where 
the  trail  "forked.  Panting  for  breath  I  hesitated 
which  way  to  take,  and  it  was  in  that  moment  of 
hesitation  that  a  heavy  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder. 

"Where  away,  my  young  friend?"  It  was  Lo- 
casto.  His  face  was  Mephistophelian,  his  voice 
edged  with  irony.  I  was  startled  I  admit,  but  I  tried 
to  put  a  good  face  on  it. 

"  Hello,"  I  said;  "  I'm  just  taking  a  stroll." 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  191 

His  black  eyes  pierced  me,  his  black  brows  met 
savagely.  The  heavy  jaw  shot  forward,  and  for  a 
moment  the  man,  menacing  and  terrible,  seemed  to 
tower  above  me, 

"  You  lie !  "  like  explosive  steam  came  the  words, 
and  wolf-like  his  lips  parted,  showing  his  powerful 
teeth.  "You  lie!"  he  reiterated.  "You  followed 
me.  Didn't  I  see  you  from  the  hotel?  Didn't  I 
determine  to  decoy  you  away?  Oh,  you  fool!  you 
fool !  who  are  you  that  would  pit  your  weakness 
against  my  strength,  your  simplicity  against  my  cun- 
ning? You  would  try  to  cross  me,  would  you  ?  You 
would  champion  damsels  in  distress?  You  pretty 
fool,  you  simpleton,  you  meddler " 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  he  struck  me  square  on 
the  face,  a  blinding,  staggering  blow  that  brought  me 
to  my  knees  as  falls  a  pole-axed  steer.  I  was  stunned, 
swaying  weakly,  trying  vainly  to  get  on  my  feet.  I 
stretched  out  my  clenched  hands  to  him.  Then  he 
struck  me  again,  a  bitter,  felling  blow. 

I  was  completely  at  his  mercy  now  and  he  showed 
me  none.  He  was  like  a  fiend.  Rage  seemed  to 
rend  him.  Time  and  again  he  kicked  me,  brutally, 
relentlessly,  on  the  ribs,  on  the  chest,  on  the  head. 
Was  the  man  going  to  do  me  to  death?  I  shielded 
my  head.  I  moaned  in  agony.  Would  he  never 
stop?  Then  I  became  unconscious,  knowing  that  he 
was  still  kicking  me,  and  wondering  if  I  would  ever 
open  my  eyes  again. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  Long  live  the  cold-feet  tribe !     Long  live  the  sore- 
heads!  " 

It  was  the  Prodigal  who  spoke.  "  This  outfit  buy- 
ing's  got  gold-mining  beaten  to  a  standstill.  Here 
I've  been  three  weeks  in  the  burg  and  got  over  ten 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  grub  cached  away.  Every 
pound  of  it  will  net  me  a  hundred  per  cent,  profit. 
I'm  beginning  to  look  on  myself  as  a  second  John  D. 
Rockefeller." 

"You're  a  confounded  robber,"  I  said.  "  You're 
working  a  cinch-game.  What's  your  first  name? 
Isaac?" 

He  turned  the  bacon  he  was  frying  and  smiled 
gayly. 

"  Snort  away  all  you  like,  old  sport.  So  long  as  I 
get  the  mon  you  can  call  me  any  old  name  you  please." 

He  was  very  sprightly  and  elate,  but  I  was  in  no 
sort  of  mood  to  share  in  his  buoyancy.  Physically  I 
had  fully  recovered  from  my  terrible  manhandling, 
but  in  spirit  I  still  writhed  at  the  outrage  of  it.  And 
the  worst  was  I  could  do  nothing.  The  law  could 
not  help  me,  for  there  were  no  witnesses  to  the  as- 
sault. I  could  never  cope  with  this  man  in  bodily 
strength.  Why  was  I  not  a  stalwart  ?  If  I  had  been 
as  tall  and  strong  as  Garry,  for  instance.  True,  I 
might  shoot;  but  there  the  Police  would  take  a  hand 

192 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  193 

in  the  game,  and  I  would  lose  out  badly.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  and  pray  for 
some  means  of  retaliation. 

Yet  how  bitterly  I  brooded  over  the  business.  At 
times  there  was  even  black  murder  in  my  heart.  I 
planned  schemes  of  revenge,  grinding  my  teeth  in  im- 
potent rage  the  while;  and  my  feelings  were  com- 
plicated by  that  awful  gnawing  hunger  for  Berna  that 
never  left  me.  It  was  a  perfect  agony  of  heart,  a 
panic-fear,  a  craving  so  intense  that  at  times  I  felt  I 
would  go  distracted  with  the  pain  of  it. 

Perhaps  I  am  a  poor  sort  of  being.  I  have  often 
wondered.  I  either  feel  intensely,  or  I  am  quite  in- 
different. I  am  a  prey  to  my  emotions,  a  martyr  to 
my  moods.  Apart  from  my  great  love  for  Berna  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  nothing  mattered.  All  through 
these  stormy  years  it  was  like  that — nothing  else  mat- 
tered. And  now  that  I  am  nearing  the  end  of  my 
life  I  can  see  that  nothing  else  has  ever  mattered. 
Everything  that  happened  appealed  to  me  in  its  re- 
lation to  her.  It  seemed  to  me  as  If  I  saw  all  the 
world  through  the  medium  of  my  love  for  her,  and 
that  all  beauty,  all  truth,  all  good  was  but  a  setting 
for  this  girl  of  mine. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Jim;  *'  let's  go  for  a  walk  in  the 
town." 

The  "  Modern  Gomorrah  "  he  called  it,  and  he  was 
never  tired  of  expatiating  on  its  iniquity. 

"  See  that  man  there?  "  he  said,  pointing  to  a  grey- 
haired  pedestrian,  who  was  talking  to  an  emphatic 
blonde.      "  That  man's  a  lawyer.      He's  got  a  lovely 


194  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

home  in  Los  Angeles,  an'  three  of  the  sweetest  girls 
you  ever  saw.  A  young  fellow  needed  to  have  his 
credentials  O.  K.'d  by  the  Purity  Committee  before 
he  came  butting  round  that  man's  home.  Now  he's 
off  to  buy  wine  for  Daisy  of  the  Deadline." 

The  grey-haired  man  had  turned  into  a  saloon 
with  his  companion, 

"  Yes,  that's  Dawson  for  you.  We're  so  far  from 
home.  The  good  old  moralities  don't  apply  here. 
The  hoary  old  Yukon  won't  tell  on  us.  We've  been 
a  Sunday  School  Superintendent  for  ten  years.  For 
fifty  more  we've  passed  up  the  forbidden  fruit.  Every 
one  else  is  helping  themselves.  Wonder  what  it 
tastes  like?  Wine  is  flowing  like  water.  Money's 
the  cheapest  thing  in  sight.  Cut  loose,  drink  up. 
The  orchestra's  a-goin'.  Get  your  partners  for  a  nice 
juicy  two-step.     Come  on,  boys !  " 

He  was  particularly  bitter,  and  it  really  seemed  in 
that  general  lesion  of  the  moral  fibre  that  civilisation 
was  only  a  makeshift,  a  veneer  of  hypocrisy. 

"Why  should  we  marvel,"  I  said,  "at  man's 
brutality,  when  but  an  aeon  ago  we  all  were 
apes?  " 

Just  then  we  met  the  Jam-wagon.  He  had  mushed 
in  from  the  creeks  that  very  day.  Physically  he 
looked  supreme.  He  was  berry-brown,  lean, 
muscular  and  as  full  of  suppressed  energy  as  an  un- 
sprung bear-trap.  Financially  he  was  well  ballasted. 
Mentally  and  morally  he  was  in  the  state  of  a  volcano 
before  an  eruption. 

You  could  see  in  the  quick  breathing,  in  the  rest- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  195 

lessness  of  this  man,  a  pent-up  energy  that  clamoured 
to  exhaust  itself  in  violence  and  debauch.  His  fierce 
blue  eyes  were  wild  and  roving,  his  lips  twitched 
nervously.  He  was  an  atavism;  of  the  race  of  those 
white-bodied,  ferocious  sea-kings  that  drank  deep  and 
died  in  the  din  of  battle.  He  must  live  in  the  white 
light  of  excitement,  or  sink  in  the  gloom  of  despair. 
I  could  see  his  fine  nostrils  quiver  like  those  of  a 
charger  that  scents  the  smoke  of  battle,  and  I  realised 
that  he  should  have  been  a  soldier  still,  a  leader  of 
forlorn  hopes,  a  partner  of  desperate  hazards. 

As  we  walked  along,  Jim  did  most  of  the  talking 
in  his  favourite  morality  vein.  The  Jam-wagon 
puffed  silently  at  his  briar  pipe,  while  I,  very  listless 
and  downhearted,  thought  largely  of  my  own 
troubles.  Then,  in  the  middle  of  the  block,  where 
most  of  the  music-halls  were  situated,  suddenly  we 
met  Locasto. 

When  I  saw  him  my  heart  gave  a  painful  leap, 
and  I  think  my  face  must  have  gone  as  white  as  paper. 
I  had  thought  much  over  this  meeting,  and  had 
dreaded  it.  There  are  things  which  no  man  can 
overlook,  and,  if  it  meant  death  to  me,  I  must  again 
try  conclusions  with  the  brute. 

He  was  accompanied  by  a  little  bald-headed  Jew 
named  Spitzstein,  and  we  were  almost  abreast  of 
them  when  I  stepped  forward  and  arrested  them. 
My  teeth  were  clenched;  I  was  all  a-quiver  with  pas- 
sion; my  heart  beat  violently.  For  a  moment  I  stood 
there,  confronting  him  in  speechless  excitement. 

He  was  dressed  in  that  miner's  costume  in  which 


196  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

he  always  looked  so  striking.  From  his  big  Stetson 
to  his  high  boots  he  was  typically  the  big,  strong  man 
of  Alaska,  the  Conqueror  of  the  Wild.  But  his 
mouth  was  grim  as  granite,  and  his  black  eyes  hard 
and  repellent  as  those  of  a  toad. 

"Oh,  you  coward!"  I  cried.  "You  vile,  filthy 
coward !  " 

He  was  looking  down  on  me  from  his  Imperious 
height,  very  coolly,  very  cynically. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  drawled;  "I  don't  know 
you." 

"Liar  as  well  as  coward,"  I  panted.  "Liar  to 
your  teeth.      Brute,  coward,  liar " 

"  Here,  get  out  of  my  way,"  he  snarled;  "  I've  got 
to  teach  you  a  lesson." 

Once  more  before  I  could  guard  he  landed  on  me 
with  that  terrible  right-arm  swing,  and  down  I  went 
as  if  a  sledge-hammer  had  struck  me.  But  instantly 
I  was  on  my  feet,  a  thing  of  blind  passion,  of  desper- 
ate fight.  I  made  one  rush  to  throw  myself  on  this 
human  tower  of  brawn  and  muscle,  when  some  one 
pinioned  me  from  behind.      It  was  Jim. 

"  Easy,  boy,"  he  was  saying;  "  you  can't  fight  this 
big  fellow." 

Spitzstein  was  looking  on  curiously.  With  won- 
derful quickness  a  crowd  had  collected,  all  avidly 
eager  for  a  fight.  Above  them  towered  the  fierce, 
domineering  figure  of  Locasto.  There  was  a  breath- 
less pause,  then,  at  the  psychological  moment,  the 
Jam-wagon  intervened. 

The  smouldering  fire  in  his  eye  Lad  brightened  Into 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  197 

a  fierce  joy;  his  twitching  mouth  was  now  grim  and 
stern  as  a  prison  door.  For  days  he  had  been  fight- 
ing a  dim  intangible  foe.  Here  at  last  was 
something  human  and  definite.  He  advanced  to 
Locasto. 

"  Why  don't  you  strike  some  one  nearer  your 
own  size?  "  he  demanded.  His  voice  was  tense,  yet 
ever  so  quiet. 

Locasto  flashed  at  him  a  look  of  surprise,  measur- 
ing him  from  head  to  foot. 

"You're  a  brute,"  went  on  the  Jam-wagon  evenly; 
"  a  cowardly  brute." 

Black  Jack's  face  grew  dark  and  terrible.  His 
ej'es  glinted  sparks  of  fire. 

"  See  here,  Englishman,"  he  said,  "  this  isn't  your 
scrap.     What  are  you  butting  in  about?  " 

"  It  isn't,"  said  the  Jam-wagon,  and  I  could  see 
the  flame  of  fight  brighten  joyously  in  him.  "  It 
isn't,  but  I'll  soon  make  it  mine.     There!" 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  dealt  the  other  a  blow  on  the 
cheek,  an  open-handed  blow  that  stung  like  a  whip- 
lash. 

*'  Now,  fight  me,  you  coward." 

There  and  then  Locasto  seemed  about  to  spring  on 
his  challenger.  With  hands  clenched  and  teeth 
bared,  he  half  bent  as  if  for  a  charge.  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  straightened  up. 

"All  right,"  he  said  softly;  "  Spitzstein,  can  we 
have  the  Opera  House?" 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so.  We  can  clear  away  the 
benches." 


198  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"Then  tell  the  crowd  to  come  along;  we'll  give 
them  a  free  show." 

^f  ^1^  ^i#  <i^  >i^  *t^ 

I  think  there  must  have  been  five  hundred  men 
around  that  ring.  A  big  Australian  pugilist  was  um- 
pire. Some  one  suggested  gloves,  but  Locasto  would 
not  hear  of  it. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  mark  the  son  of  a  dog 
so  his  mother  will  never  know  him  again." 

He  had  become  frankly  brutal,  and  prepared  for 
the  fray  exultantly.  Both  men  fought  in  their  un- 
derclothing. 

Stripped  down,  the  Jam-wagon  was  seen  to  be 
much  the  smaller  man,  not  only  in  height,  but  in 
breadth  and  weight.  Yet  he  was  a  beautiful  figure 
of  a  fighter,  clean,  well-poised,  firm-limbed,  with  a 
body  that  seemed  to  taper  from  the  shoulders  down. 
His  fair  hair  glistened;  his  eyes  were  wary  and  cool, 
his  lips  set  tightly.  In  the  person  of  this  living 
adversary  he  was  fighting  an  unseen  one  vastly  more 
dread  and  terrific. 

Locasto  looked  almost  too  massive.  His  muscles 
bulged  out.  The  veins  in  his  forearms  were  cord- 
like. His  great  chest  seemed  as  broad  as  a  door. 
His  legs  were  statuesque  in  their  size  and  strength. 
In  that  camp  of  strong  men  probably  he  was  the 
most  powerful. 

And  nowhere  in  the  world  could  a  fight  have  been 
awaited  with  greater  zest.  These  men,  miners, 
gamblers,  adventurers  of  all  kinds,  pushed  and 
struggled  for  a  place.     A  great  joy  surged  through 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  199 

them  at  the  thought  of  the  approaching  combat. 
Keen-eyed,  hard-breathing,  a-thrill  with  expectation, 
the  crowd  packed  closer  and  closer.  Outside,  people 
were  clamouring  for  admission.  They  climbed  on 
the  stage,  and  into  the  boxes.  They  hung  over  the 
galleries.  All  told,  there  must  have  been  a  thousand 
of  them. 

As  the  two  men  stood  up  it  was  like  the  lithe 
Greek  athlete  compared  with  the  brawny  Roman 
gladiator.  "  Three  to  one  on  Locasto,"  some  one 
shouted.  Then  a  great  hush  came  over  the  house, 
so  that  it  might  have  been  empty  and  deserted.  Time 
was  called.     The  fight  began. 


CHAPTER  V 

With  one  tiger-rush  Locasto  threw  himself  on  his 
man.  There  was  no  preliminary  fiddling  here;  they 
were  out  for  blood,  and  the  sooner  they  wallowed  in  it 
the  better.  Right  and  left  he  struck  with  mighty 
swings  that  would  have  felled  an  ox,  but  the  Jam- 
wagon  was  too  quick  for  him.  Twice  he  ducked  in 
time  to  avoid  a  furious  blow,  and,  before  Locasto 
could  recover,  he  had  hopped  out  of  reach.  The  big 
man's  fist  swished  through  the  empty  air.  He  al- 
most overbalanced  with  the  force  of  his  effort,  but  he 
swung  round  quickly,  and  there  was  the  Jam-wagon, 
cool  and  watchful,  awaiting  his  next  attack. 

Locasto's  face  grew  fiendish  in  its  sinister  wrath; 
he  shot  forth  a  foul  imprecation,  and  once  more  he 
hurled  himself  resistlessly  on  his  foe.  This  time  I 
thought  my  champion  must  go  down,  but  no !  With 
a  dexterity  that  seemed  marvellous,  he  dodged, 
ducked  and  side-stepped;  and  once  more  Locasto's 
blows  went  wide  and  short.  Jeers  began  to  go  up 
from  the  throng.  "Even  money  on  the  little  fel- 
low," sang  out  a  voice  with  the  flat  twang  of  a  banjo. 

Locasto  glared  round  on  the  crowd.  He  was  ac- 
customed to  lord  it  over  these  men,  and  the  jeers 
goaded  him  like  banderilleros  goad  a  bull.  Again 
and  again  he  repeated  his  tremendous  rushes,  only 
to  find  his  powerful  arms  winnowing  the  empty  air, 

200 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  201 

only  to  see  his  agile  antagonist  smiling  at  him  in 
mockery  from  the  centre  of  the  ring.  Not  one  of 
his  sledgehammer  smashes  reached  their  mark,  and 
the  round  closed  without  a  blow  having  landed. 

From  the  mob  of  onlookers  a  chorus  of  derisive 
cheers  went  up.  The  little  man  with  the  banjo  voice 
was  holding  up  a  poke  of  dust.  "  Even  money  on 
the  little  one."  A  hum  of  eager  conversation  broke 
forth. 

I  was  at  the  ring-side.  At  the  beginning  I  had 
been  in  an  agony  of  fear  for  the  Jam-wagon.  Look- 
ing at  the  two  men,  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  hardly 
hope  to  escape  terrible  punishment  at  the  hands  of 
one  so  massively  powerful,  and  every  blow  inflicted 
on  him  would  have  been  like  one  inflicted  on  myself. 
But  now  I  took  heart  and  looked  forward  with  less 
anxiety. 

Again  time  was  called,  and  Locasto  sprang  up, 
seemingly  quite  refreshed  by  his  rest.  Once  more  he 
plunged  after  his  man,  but  now  I  could  see  his  rushes 
were  more  under  control,  his  smashing  blows  better 
timed,  his  fierce  jabs  more  shrewdly  delivered.  Again 
I  began  to  quake  for  the  Jam-wagon,  but  he  showed  a 
wonderful  quickness  in  his  footwork,  darting  in  and 
out,  his  hands  swinging  at  his  sides,  a  smile  of  mock- 
ery on  his  lips.  He  was  deft  as  a  dancing-master;  he 
twinkled  like  a  gleam  of  light,  and  amid  that  savage 
thresh  of  blows  he  was  as  cool  as  if  he  were  boxing  in 
the  school  gymnasium. 

"Who  is  he?"  those  at  the  ring-side  began  to 
whisper.     Time  and  again  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 


202  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

cornered,  but  in  a  marvellous  way  he  wormed  him- 
self free.  I  held  my  breath  as  he  evaded  blow  after 
blow,  some  of  which  seemed  to  miss  him  by  a  mere 
hair's  breadth.  He  was  taking  chances,  I  thought, 
so  narrowly  did  he  permit  the  blows  to  miss  him.  I 
was  all  keyed  up,  on  edge  with  excitement,  eager  for 
my  man  to  strike,  to  show  he  was  not  a  mere  ring- 
tactician.     But  the  Jam-wagon  bided  his  time. 

And  so  the  '■ound  ended,  and  it  was  evident  that 
the  crowd  was  of  the  same  opinion  as  myself.  "  Why 
don't  he  mix  up  a  little?"  said  one.  "Give  him 
time,"  said  another.  "He's  all  right:  there's  some 
class  to  that  work." 

Locasto  came  up  for  the  third  round  looking 
sobered,  subdued,  grimly  determined.  Evidently  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  force  his  opponent  out  of 
his  evasive  tactics.  He  was  wary  as  a  cat.  He  went 
cautiously.  Yet  again  he  assumed  the  aggressive, 
gradually  working  the  Jam-wagon  into  a  corner. 
A  collision  was  inevitable;  there  was  no  means  of 
escape  for  my  friend;  that  huge  bulk,  with  its  swing- 
ing, flail-like  arms,  menaced  him  hopelessly. 

Suddenly  Locasto  closed  in.  He  swooped  down 
on  the  Jam-wagon.  He  had  him.  He  shortened  his 
right  arm  for  a  jab  like  the  crash  of  a  pile-driver. 
The  arm  shot  out,  but  once  again  the  Jam-wagon  was 
not  there.  He  ducked  quickly,  and  Locasto's  great 
fist  brushed  his  hair. 

Then,  like  lightning,  the  two  came  to  a  clinch. 
Now,  thought  I,  it's  all  off  with  the  Jam-wagon.  I 
saw  Locasto's  eyes  dilate  with  ferocious  joy.     He  had 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  203 

the  other  in  his  giant  arms;  he  could  crush  him  in 
a  mighty  hug,  the  hug  of  a  grizzly,  crush  him  like 
an  egg-shell.  But,  quick  as  the  snap  of  a  trap,  the 
Jam-wagon  had  pinioned  his  arms  at  the  elbow,  so 
that  he  was  helpless.  For  a  moment  he  held  him, 
then,  suddenly  releasing  his  arms,  he  caught  him 
round  the  body,  shook  him  with  a  mighty  side-heave, 
gave  him  the  cross-buttock,  and,  before  he  could 
strike  a  single  blow,  threw  him  in  the  air  and  dashed 
him  to  the  ground. 

"  Time !  "  called  the  umpire.  It  was  all  done  so 
quickly  it  was  hard  for  the  eye  to  follow,  but  a 
mighty  cheer  went  up  from  the  house.  "  Two  to 
one  on  the  little  fellow,"  called  the  banjo-voice.  Sud- 
denly Locasto  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  shamed, 
angered  beyond  all  expression.  Heaving  and  pant- 
ing, he  lurched  to  his  corner,  and  in  his  eyes  there 
was  a  look  that  boded  ill  for  his  adversary. 

Time  again.  With  the  lightness  of  a  panther  the 
Jam-wagon  sprang  into  the  centre  of  the  ring.  More 
than  halfway  he  met  Locasto,  and  now  his  intention 
seemed  to  be  to  draw  his  man  on  rather  than  to 
avoid  him.  I  watched  his  every  movement  with  a 
sense  of  thrilling  fascination.  He  had  resumed  his 
serpentine  movements,  advancing  and  retreating  with 
shadow-like  quickness,  feinting,  side-stepping,  paw- 
ing the  air  till  he  had  his  man  baffled  and  bewildered. 
Yet  he  never  struck  a  blow. 

All  this  seemed  to  be  getting  on  Locasto's  nerves. 
He  was  going  steadily  enough,  trying  by  every  means 
in  his  power  to  get  the  other  man  to  "mix  it  up." 


204  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

He  shouted  the  foulest  abuse  at  him.  "  Stand  up 
like  a  man,  you  son  of  a  dog,  and  fight."  The  smile 
left  the  Jam-wagon's  lips,  and  he  settled  down  to 
business. 

I  saw  him  edging  up  to  Locasto.  He  feinted 
wildly,  then,  stepping  in  closely,  he  swung  a  right 
and  left  to  Black  Jack's  face.  A  moment  later  he 
was  six  feet  away,  with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lips. 

With  a  fierce  bellow  of  rage  Locasto,  forgetting 
all  his  caution,  charged  him.  He  smashed  his  heavy 
right  with  all  its  might  for  the  other's  face,  but,  quick 
as  the  quiver  of  a  bov/-string,  the  Jam-wagon  side- 
stepped and  the  blow  missed.  Then  the  Jam-wagon 
shifted  and  brought  his  left,  full-weight,  crash  on  Lo- 
casto's  mouth. 

At  that  fierce  triumphant  blow  there  was  the  first 
dazzling  blood-gleam,  and  the  crowd  screeched  with 
excitement.  In  a  wild  whirlwind  of  fury  Locasto 
hurled  himself  on  the  Jam-wagon,  his  arms  going 
like  windmills.  Any  one  of  these  blows,  delivered  in 
a  vital  spot,  would  have  meant  death,  but  his  op- 
ponent was  equal  to  this  blind  assault.  Dodging, 
ducking,  side-stepping,  blocking,  he  foiled  the  other 
at  every  turn,  and,  just  before  the  round  ended, 
drove  his  left  into  the  pit  of  the  big  man's  stom- 
ach, with  a  thwack  that  resounded  throughout  the 
building. 

Once  more  time  was  called.  The  Jam-wagon  was 
bleeding  about  the  knuckles.  Several  of  Locasto's 
teeth  had  been  loosened,  and  he  spat  blood  fre- 
quently.    Otherwise  he  looked  as  fit  as  ever.     He 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  205 

pursued  his  man  with  savage  determination,  and 
seemed  resolved  to  get  in  a  deadly  body-blow  that 
would  end  the  fight. 

It  was  pretty  to  see  the  Jam-wagon  work.  He  was 
sprightly  as  a  ballet  dancer,  as,  weaving  in  and  out,  he 
dodged  the  other's  blows.  His  arms  swung  at  his 
sides,  and  he  threw  his  head  about  in  a  manner  in- 
sufferably mocking  and  tantalising.  Then  he  took 
to  landing  light  body-blows,  that  grew  more  frequent 
till  he  seemed  to  be  beating  a  regular  tattoo  on  Lo- 
casto's  ribs.  He  was  springy  as  a  panther,  elusive 
as  an  eel.  As  for  Locasto,  his  face  was  sober  now, 
strained,  anxious,  and  he  seemed  to  be  waiting  with 
menacing  eyes  to  get  in  that  vital  smash  that  meant 
the  end. 

The  Jam-wagon  began  to  put  more  force  into  his 
arms.  He  drove  in  a  short-arm  left  to  the  stomach, 
then  brought  his  right  up  to  the  other's  chin.  Lo- 
casto swung  a  deadly  knock-out  blow  at  the  Jam- 
wagon,  which  just  grazed  his  jaw,  and  the  Jam- 
wagon  retaliated  with  two  lightning  rights  and  a 
nervous  left,  all  on  the  big  man's  face. 

Then  he  sprang  back,  for  he  was  excited  now.  In 
and  out  he  wove.  Once  more  he  landed  a  hard  left 
on  Locasto's  heaving  stomach,  and  then,  rushing  in, 
he  rained  blow  after  blow  on  his  antagonist.  It  was 
a  furious  mix-up,  a  whirling  storm  of  blows,  brutal, 
savage  and  murderous.  No  two  men  could  keep  up 
such  a  gait.  They  came  into  a  clinch,  but  this  time 
the  Jam-wagon  broke  away,  giving  the  deadly  kidne}?' 
blow  as  they  parted.     When  time  was  called  both 


2o6  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

men  were  panting  hard,  bruised  and  covered  with 
blood. 

How  the  house  howled  with  delight !  All  the 
primordial  brute  in  these  men  was  glowing  in  their 
hearts.  Nothing  but  blood  could  appease  it.  Their 
throats  were  parched,  their  eyes  wild. 

Round  six.  Locasto  sprang  into  the  centre  of  the 
ring.-  His  face  was  hideously  disfigured.  Only  in 
that  battered,  blood-stained  mask  could  I  recognise 
the  black  eyes  gleaming  deadly  hatred.  Rushing  for 
the  Jam-wagon,  he  hurled  him  across  the  ring.  Again 
charging,  he  overbore  him  to  the  floor,  but  failed  to 
hold  him. 

Then  in  the  Jam-wagon  there  awoke  the  ancient 
spirit  of  the  Berserker.  He  cared  no  more  for  pun- 
ishment. He  was  insensible  to  pain.  He  was  the 
sea-pirate  again,  mad  with  the  lust  of  battle.  Like  a 
fiend  he  tore  himself  loose,  and  went  after  his  man, 
rushing  him  with  a  swift,  battering  hail  of  blows 
around  the  ring.  Like  a  tiger  he  was,  and  the  violent 
lunges  of  Locasto  only  infuriated  him  the  more. 

Now  they  were  in  a  furious  mix-up,  and  suddenly 
Locasto,  seizing  him  savagely,  tried  to  whip  him 
smashing  to  the  floor.  Then  the  wonderful  agility 
of  the  Englishman  was  displayed.  In  a  distance  of 
less  than  a  two-foot  drop  he  turned  completely  like 
a  cat.  Leaping  up,  he  was  free,  and,  getting  a  waist- 
hold  with  a  Cornish  heave,  he  bore  Locasto  to  the 
floor.  Quickly  he  changed  to  a  crotch-lock,  and, 
lastly,  holding  Locasto's  legs,  he  brought  him  to  a 
bridge  and  worked  his  weight  up  on  his  body.     , 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  207 

Black  Jack,  with  a  mighty  heave,  broke  away  and 
again  regained  his  feet.  This  seemed  to  enrage  the 
Jam-wagon  the  more,  for  he  tore  after  his  man  like 
a  maddened  bull.  Getting  a  hold  with  incredible 
strength,  he  lifted  him  straight  up  in  the  air  and 
hurled  him  to  the  ground  with  sickening  force. 

Locasto  lay  there.  His  eyes  were  closed.  He  did 
not  move.  Several  men  rushed  forward.  "  He's 
all  right,"  said  a  medical-looking  individual;  "just 
stunned.      I  guess  you  can  call  the  fight  over." 

The  Jam-wagon  slowly  put  on  his  clothes.  Once 
more,  In  the  person  of  Locasto,  he  had  successfully 
grappled  with  "Old  Man  Booze."  He  was  badly 
bruised  about  the  body,  but  not  seriously  hurt  in 
any  way.  Shudderlngly  I  looked  down  at  Locasto's 
face,  beaten  to  a  pulp,  his  body  livid  from  head  to 
foot.  And  then,  as  they  bore  him  off  to  the  hospital, 
I  realised  I  was  revenged. 

"  Did  you  know  that  man  Spltzstein  was  charging 
a  dollar  for  admission?"  queried  the  Prodigal. 

"No!" 

"  That's  right.  That  darned  little  Jew  netted 
nearly  a  thousand  dollars." 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  Let  me  introduce  you,"  said  the  Prodigal,  "  to  my 
friend  the  '  Pote.'  " 

"  Glad  to  meet  you,"  said  the  Pote  cheerfully,  ex- 
tending a  damp  hand.  "Just  been  having  a  dish- 
washing bee.      Excuse  my  dishybeel." 

He  wore  a  pale-blue  undershirt,  white  flannel  trou- 
sers girt  round  the  waist  with  a  red  silk  handkerchief, 
very  gaudy  moccasins,  and  a  rakish  Panama  hat  with 
a  band  of  chocolate  and  gold. 

"Take  a  seat,  won't  you?"  Through  his  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  his  eyes  shone  benevolently  as  he 
indicated  an  easy-looking  chair.  I  took  it.  It 
promptly  collapsed  under  me. 

"Ah,  excuse  me,"  he  said;  "you're  not  onto  the 
combination  of  that  chair.      I'll  fix  it." 

He  performed  some  operation  on  it  which  made  it 
less  unstable,  and  I  sat  down  gingerly. 

I  was  in  a  little  log-cabin  on  the  hill  overlooking 
the  town.  Through  the  bottle  window  the  light 
came  dimly.  The  walls  showed  the  bark  of  logs  and 
tufts  of  intersecting  moss.  In  the  corner  was  a  bunk 
over  which  lay  a  bearskin  robe,  and  on  the  little 
obJong  stove  a  pot  of  beans  was  simmering. 

The  Pote  finished  his  dish-washing  and  joined  us, 
pulling  on  an  old  Tuxedo  jacket. 

"Whew!     Glad  that  job's  over.     You  know,  I 

208 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  209 

guess  I'm  fastidious,  but  I  can't  bear  to  use  a  plate 
for  more  than  three  meals  without  passing  a  wet  rag 
over  it.  That's  the  worst  of  having  refined  ideas, 
they  make  life  so  complex.  However,  I  mustn't  com- 
plain. There's  a  monastic  simplicity  about  this  joint 
that  endears  it  to  me.  And  now,  having  immolated 
myself  on  the  altar  of  cleanliness,  I  will  solace  my 
soul  with  a  little  music." 

He  took  down  a  banjo  from  the  wall  and,  striking 
a  few  chords,  began  to  sing.  His  songs  seemed  to  be 
original,  even  improvisations,  and  he  sang  them  with 
a  certain  quaintness  and  point  that  made  them  very 
piquant.  I  remember  one  of  the  choruses.  It  went 
like  this: 

"  In  the  land  of  pale  blue  snow 
Where  it's  ninety-nine  below, 
And  the  polar  bears  are  dancing  on  the  plain, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  pole, 
Oh,  my  Heart,  my  Life,  my  Soul, 
I  will  meet  thee  when  the  ice-worms  nest  again." 

Every  now  and  then  he  would  pause  to  make  some 
lively  comment. 

"  You've  never  heard  of  the  blue  snow,  Cheechako? 
The  rabbits  have  blue  fur,  and  the  ptarmigans'  feath- 
ers are  a  bright  azure.  You've  never  had  an  ice- 
worm  cocktail?  We  must  remedy  that.  Great 
dope.  Nothing  like  ice-worm  oil  for  salads.  Oh,  I 
forgot,  didn't  give  you  my  card." 

I  took  it.     It  was  engraved  thus : 


210  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 


OLLIE  GABOODLER. 

Poetic  Expert. 


Turning  it  over,  I  read: 


Graduate  of  the  University  of  Hard  Knocks. 
All  kinds  of  verse  made  to  order  with  efficiency  and 

dispatch. 

Satisfaction  guaranteed  or  money  returned. 

A  trial  solicited. 

In   Memoriam  Odes  a  specialty. 

Ballads,  Rondeaux  and  Sonnets  at  modest  prices. 

Try  our  lines  of  Love  Lyrics. 

Leave  orders  at  the  Comet  Saloon. 


I  Stared  at  him  curiously.  He  was  smoking  a 
cigarette  and  watching  me  with  shrewd,  observant 
eyes.  He  was  a  blond,  blue-eyed,  cherubic  youth, 
w^th  a  whimsical  mouth  that  seemed  to  alternate  be- 
tween seriousness  and  fun. 

He  laughed  merrily  at  my  look  of  dismay. 

"  Oh,  you  think  It's  a  josh,  but  It's  not.  I've  been 
a  '  ghost  '  ever  since  I  could  push  a  pen.  You  know 
Win  Wllderbush,  the  famous  novelist?     Well,  Bill 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  211 

died  six  years  ago  from  over-assiduous  cultivation  of 
John  Barleycorn,  and  they  hushed  it  up.  But  every 
year  there's  a  new  novel  comes  from  his  pen.  It's 
'  ghosts.'  I  was  Bill  number  three.  Isn't  it  rum- 
my? " 

I  expressed  my  surprise. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  great  joke  this  book-faking.  Wouldn't 
Thackeray  have  lambasted  the  best  sellers?  A  fancy 
picture  of  a  girl  on  the  cover,  something  doing  all  the 
time,  and  a  happy  ending — that's  the  recipe.  Or 
else  be  as  voluptuous  as  velvet.  Wait  till  my  novel, 
'  Three  Minutes,'  comes  out.     Order  in  advance." 

"  Indeed  I  will,"  I  said. 

He  suddenly  became  grave. 

"  If  I  only  could  take  the  literary  game  seri- 
ously I  might  make  good.  But  I'm  too  much  of  a 
'  farceur.'  Well,  one  day  we'll  see.  Maybe  the 
North  will  inspire  me.  Maybe  I'll  yet  become  the 
Spokesman  of  the  Frozen  Silence,  the  Avatar  of  the 
Great  White  Land." 

He  strutted  up  and  down,  inflating  his  chest. 

"Have  you  framed  up  any  dope  lately?"  asked 
the  Prodigal. 

"Why,  yes;  only  this  morning,  while  I  was  eating 
my  beans  and  bacon,  I  dashed  off  a  few  lines.  I  al- 
ways write  best  when  I'm  eating.  Want  to  hear 
them?" 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  an  old  envelope. 

"  They  were  written  to  the  order  of  Stillwater 
Willie.  He  wants  to  present  them  to  one  of  the  La- 
belle  Sisters.     You  know — that  fat  lymphatic  blonde, 


212  THE   TRAIL   OF   '9S 

Birdie  Labelle.  It  is  short  and  sweet.  He  wants  to 
have  it  engraved  on  a  gold-backed  hand-mirror  he's 
giving  her. 

"I  see  within  my  true  love's  eyes 
The  wide  blue  spaces  of  the  skies; 
I  see  within  my  true  love's  face 
The  rose  and  lily  vie  in  grace; 
I  hear  within  my  true  love's  voice 
The  songsters  of  the  Spring  rejoice. 
Oh,  why  need  I  seek  Nature's  charms — 
I  hold  my  true  love  in  my  arms. 

"  How'U  that  hit  her?  There's  such  a  lot  of 
natural  beauty  about  Birdie." 

"  Do  you  get  much  work?  "  I  asked. 

"No,  it's  dull.  Poetry's  rather  a  drug  on  the 
market  up  here.  It's  just  a  side-line.  For  a  living  I 
clean  shoes  at  the  '  Flight '  Barbershop — I,  who  have 
lingered  on  the  sunny  slopes  of  Parnassus,  and 
quenched  my  soul-thirst  at  the  Heliconian  spring — 
gents'  tans  a  specialty." 

"  Did  you  ever  publish  a  book?  "  I  asked. 

"Sure!  Did  you  never  read  my  'Rhymes  of  a 
Rustler  '  ?  One  reviewer  would  say  I  was  the  clear 
dope,  the  genuine  eighteen-carat,  jewelled-movement 
article;  the  next  would  aver  I  was  the  rankest  dub 
that  ever  came  down  the  pike.  They  said  I'd  imi- 
tated people,  people  I'd  never  pe^,  people  I'd  never 
heard  of,  people  I  never  dreamt  existed.  I  was 
accused  of  imitating  over  twenty  different  writers. 
Then  the  pedants  got  after  me,  said  I  didn't  conform 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  213 

to  academic  formulas,  advised  me  to  steep  myself  In 
tradition.  They  talked  about  form,  about  classic 
style  and  so  on.  As  if  it  matters  so  long  as  you  get 
down  the  thing  itself  so  that  folks  can  see  it,  and 
feel  it  go  right  home  to  their  hearts.  I  can  write  In 
all  the  artificial  verse  forms,  but  they're  mouldy  with 
age,  back  numbers.  Forget  them.  Quit  studying 
that  old  Greek  dope:  study  life,  modern  life,  palpitat- 
ing with  colour,  crying  for  expression.  Life !  Life ! 
The  sunshine  of  it  was  in  my  heart,  and  I  just  natu« 
rally  tried  to  be  its  singer." 

"  I  say,"  said  the  Prodigal  from  the  bunk  where 
he  was  lounging,  in  a  haze  of  cigarette  smoke,  "  read 
us  that  thing  you  did  the  other  day,  '  The  Last  Sup- 
per.' " 

The  Pote's  eyes  twinkled  with  pleasure. 

*'  All  right,"  he  said.  Then,  in  a  clear  voice,  he 
repeated  the  following  lines : 

"THE  LAST  SUPPER. 

Marie  Vaux  of  the  Painted  Lips, 
And  the  mouth  so  mocking  gay; 
A  wanton  you  to  the  finger  tips, 
That  break  men's  hearts  in  play; 
A  thing  of  dust  I  have  striven  for, 
Honour  and  Manhood  given  for, 
Headlong  for  ruin  driven  for — 
And  this  is  the  last,  you  say: 

DrinkwiT  your  wine  with  dainty  sips, 
Alarie  Vaux  of  the  Painted  Lips. 


214  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Marie  Vaux  of  the  Painted  Lips, 
Long  have  you  held  your  sway; 
I  have  laughed  at  your  merry  quips, 
Now  is  my  time  to  pay. 
What  we  sow  we  must  reap  again; 
When  we  laugh  we  must  weep  again ; 
So  to-night  we  will  sleep  again, 
Nor  wake  till  the  Judgment  Day. 

'Tis  a  poison  wine  that  your  palate  sips, 
Marie  Vaux  of  the  Painted  Lips. 

Marie  Vaux  of  the  Painted  Lips, 
Down  on  your  knees  and  pray; 
Pray  your  last  ere  the  moment  slips, 
Pray  ere  the  dark  and  the  terror  grips, 
And  the  bright  world  fades  away: 
Pray  for  the  good  unguessed  of  us, 
Pray  for  the  peace  and  rest  of  us. 
Here  comes  the  Shape  in  quest  of  us. 
Now  must  we  go  away — 

You  and  I  in  the  grave's  eclipse, 
Marie  Vaux  of  the  Painted  Lips." 

Just  as  he  finished  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  a  young  man  entered.  He  had  the  broad  smil- 
ing face  of  a  comedian,  and  the  bulgy  forehead  of  a 
Baptist  Missionary.     The  Pote  introduced  him  to  me. 

"  The  Yukon  Yorick." 

"  Hello,"  chuckled  the  newcomer,  "  how's  the 
bunch  ?     Don't  let  me  stampede  you.     How  d'ye  do, 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  215 

Horace!  Glad  to  meet  you."  (He  called  every- 
body Horace.)  "Just  come  away  from  a  meeting 
of  my  creditors.  What's  that?  Have  a  slab  of 
booze?  Hardly  that,  old  fellow,  hardly  that.  Don't 
tempt  me,  Horace,  don't  tempt  me.  Remember  I'm 
only  a  poor  working-girl," 

He  seemed  brimming  over  with  jovial  acceptance 
of  life  in  all  its  phases.     He  lit  a  cigar. 

"  Say,  boys,  you  know  old  Dingbats  the  lawyer. 
Ha,  yes.  Well,  met  him  on  Front  Street  just  now. 
Says  I :  *  Horace,  that  was  a  pretty  nifty  spiel  you 
gave  us  last  night  at  the  Zero  Club.'  He  looked  at 
me  all  tickled  up  the  spine.  Ha,  yes.  He  was 
pleased  as  Punch.  '  Say,  Horace,'  I  says,  '  I'm  on, 
but  I  won't  give  you  away.  I've  got  a  book  in  my 
room  with  every  word  of  that  speech  in  it.'  He 
looked  flabbergasted.  So  I  have — ^ha,  yes,  the  dic- 
tionary." 

He  rolled  his  cigar  unctuously  in  his  mouth,  with 
many  chuckles  and  a  histrionic  eye. 

"  No,  don't  tempt  me,  Horace.  Remember,  I'm 
only  a  poor  working-girl.  Thanks,  I'll  just  sit  down 
on  this  soap-box.  Knew  a  man  once,  Jobcroft  was 
his  name,  Charles  Alfred  Jobcroft,  sat  down  on  a 
custard  pie  at  a  pink  tea;  was  so  embarrassed  he 
wouldn't  get  up.  Just  sat  on  till  every  one  else  was 
gone.  Every  one  was  wondering  why  he  wouldn't 
budge:  just  sat  tight." 

"  I  guess  he  cussed  hard,"  ventured  the  Prodigal. 

*' Oh,  Horace,  spare  me  that!  Remember  I'm 
only  a  poor  working-girl.     Hardly  that,  old  fellow. 


2i6  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Say,  hit  me  with  a  slab  of  booze  quick.     Make  things 
sparkle,  boys,  make  things  sparkle." 

He  drank  urbanely  of  the  diluted  alcohol  that 
passed  for  whisky. 

"  Hit  me  easy,  boys,  hit  me  easy,"  he  said,  as  they 
refilled  his  glass.  "  I  can't  hold  my  hootch  so  well  as 
I  could  a  few  Summers  ago — and  many  hard  Falls. 
Talking  about  holding  your  '  hooch,'  the  best  I  ever 
saw  was  a  man  called  Podstreak,  Arthur  Frederick 
Podstreak.  You  couldn't  get  that  man  going.  The 
way  he  could  lap  up  the  booze  was  a  caution.  He 
would  drink  one  bunch  of  boys  under  the  table,  then 
leave  them  and  go  on  to  another.  He  would  start 
in  early  in  the  morning  and  keep  on  going  till  the 
last  thing  at  night.  And  he  never  got  hilarious  even; 
it  didn't  seem  to  phase  him;  he  was  as  sober  after  the 
twentieth  drink  as  when  he  started.  Gee !  but  he  was 
a  wonder." 

The  others  nodded  their  heads  appreciatively. 

"He  was  a  fine,  healthy-looking  chap,  too;  the 
booze  didn't  seem  to  hurt  him.  Never  saw  such  a 
constitution.  I  often  watched  him,  for  I  suspected 
him  of  '  sluffing,'  but  no!  He  always  had  a  bigger 
drink  than  every  one  else,  always  drank  whisky,  al- 
ways drank  it  neat,  and  always  had  a  chaser  of  water 
after.  I  said  to  myself:  '  What's  your  system?  '  and 
I  got  to  studying  him  hard.  Then,  one  day,  I  found 
him  out." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Well,  one  day  I  noticed  something.  I  noticed 
he  always  held  his  glass  in  a  particular  way  when  he 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  217 

drank,  and  at  the  same  time  he  pressed  his  stomach  in 
the  region  of  the  '  solar  plexus.'  So  that  night  I 
took  him  aside. 

"  '  Look  here,  Podstreak,'  I  said,  '  I'm  next  to 
you.'  I  really  wasn't,  but  the  bluff  worked.  He  grew 
white. 

"  '  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  give  me  away,'  he 
cried;  '  the  boys'U  lynch  me.' 

"  '  All  right,'  I  said;  '  if  you'll  promise  to  quit.' 

"  Then  he  made  a  full  confession,  and  showed  me 
how  he  did  it.  He  had  an  elastic  rubber  bag  under 
his  shirt,  and  a  tube  going  up  his  arm  and  down  his 
sleeve,  ending  in  a  white  nozzle  inside  his  cuff.  When 
he  went  to  empty  his  glass  of  whisky  he  simply 
pressed  some  air  out  of  the  rubber  bag,  put  the  nozzle 
in  the  glass,  and  let  it  suck  up  all  the  whisky.  At 
night  he  used  to  empty  all  the  liquor  out  of  the  bag 
and  sell  it  to  a  saloon-keeper.  Oh,  he  was  a  phoney 
piece  of  work. 

"  '  I've  been  a  total  abstainer  (in  private)  for 
seven  years,'  he  told  me.  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  and  you'll 
become  one  in  public  for  another  seven.'  And  he 
did." 

Several  men  had  dropped  in  to  swell  this  Bo- 
hemian circle.  Some  had  brought  bottles.  There 
was  a  painter  who  had  been  "hung,"  a  Mus  Bac,  an 
ex-champion  amateur  pugilist,  a  silver-tongued  ora- 
tor, a  man  who  had  "  suped"  for  Mansfield,  and  half 
a  dozen  others.  The  little  cabin  was  crowded,  the 
air  hazy  with  smoke,  the  conversation  animated.  But 
mostly  it  was  a  monologue  by  the  inimitable  Yorick. 


2i8  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Suddenly  the  .conversation  turned  to  the  immoral- 
ity of  the  town. 

"  Now,  I  have  a  theory,"  said  the  Pote,  "  that 
the  regeneration  of  Dawson  is  at  hand.  You  know 
Good  is  the  daughter  of  Evil,  Virtue  the  offspring  of 
Vice.  You  know  how  virtuous  a  man  feels  after  a 
jag.  You've  got  to  sin  to  feel  really  good.  Conse- 
quently, Sin  must  be  good  to  be  the  means  of  good, 
to  be  the  raw  material  of  good,  to  be  virtue  in  the 
making,  mustn't  it?  The  dance-halls  are  a  good 
foil  to  the  gospel-halls.  If  we  were  all  virtuous, 
there  would  be  no  virtue  in  virtue,  and  if  we  were 
all  bad  no  one  would  be  bad.  And  because  there's 
so  much  bad  in  this  old  burg  of  ours,  it  makes  the 
good  seem  unnaturally  good." 

The  Pote  had  the  floor. 

"  A  friend  of  mine  had  a  beautiful  pond  of  water- 
lilies.  They  painted  the  water  exultantly  and  were 
a  triumphant  challenge  to  the  soul.  Folks  came  from 
far  and  near  to  see  them.  Then,  one  winter,  my 
friend  thought  he  would  clean  out  his  pond,  so  he 
had  all  the  nasty,  slimy  mud  scraped  away  till  you 
could  see  the  silver  gravel  glimmering  on  the  bot- 
tom. But  the  lilies,  with  all  their  haunting  loveli- 
ness, never  came  back." 

"  Well,  what  are  you  driving  at,  you  old 
dreamer?  " 

"Oh,  just  this:  in  the  nasty  mud  and  slime  of 
Dawson  I  saw  a  lily-girl.  She  lives  in  a  cabin  by 
the  Slide  along  with  a  Jewish  couple.  I  only  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  twice.     They  are  unspeakable,  but 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  219 

she  is  fair  and  sweet  and  pure.  I  would  stake  my 
life  on  her  goodness.  She  looks  like  a  young 
Madonna " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  of  cynical  laughter. 

"  Oh,  get  off  your  foot!  A  Madonna  in  Dawson 
— Ra!  Ra!" 

He  shut  up  abashed,  but  I  had  my  clue.  I  waited 
until  the  last  noisy  roisterer  had  gone. 

"  In  the  cabin  by  the  Slide?  "  I  asked. 

He  started,  looked  at  me  searchingly:  "  You  know 
her?" 

"She  means  a  good  deal  to  me." 

"Oh,  I  understand.  Yes,  that  long,  queer  cabin 
highest  up  the  hill." 

"  Thanks,  old  chap." 

"All  right,  good  luck."  He  accompanied  me  to 
the  door,  staring  at  the  marvel  of  the  glamorous 
Northern  midnight. 

"  Oh,  for  a  medium  to  express  it  all !  Your  pe- 
dantic poetry  isn't  big  enough;  prose  isn't  big  enough. 
What  we  want  is  something  between  the  two,  some- 
thing that  will  interpret  life,  and  stir  the  great  heart 
of  the  people.     Good-night." 


CHAPTER  VII 

Very  softly  I  approached  the  cabin,  for  a  fear  of 
encountering  her  guardians  was  in  my  heart.  It  was 
in  rather  a  lonely  place,  perched  at  the  base  of  that 
vast  mountain  abrasion  they  call  the  Slide,  a  long,  low 
cabin,  quiet  and  dark,  and  surrounded  by  rugged 
boulders.  Carefully  I  reconnoitered,  and  soon,  to 
my  infinite  joy,  I  saw  the  Jewish  couple  come  forth 
and  make  their  way  townward.     The  girl  was  alone. 

How  madly  beat  my  heart !  It  was  a  glooming 
kind  of  a  night,  and  the  cabin  looked  woefully  bleak 
and  solitary.  No  light  came  through  the  windows, 
no  sound  through  the  moss-chinked  walls.  I  drew 
near. 

Why  this  wild  commotion  of  my  being?  What  was 
it?  Anxiety,  joy,  dread?  I  was  poised  on  the  pin- 
nacle of  hope  that  overhangs  the  abyss  of  despair. 
Fearfully  I  paused.  I  was  racked  with  suspense, 
conscious  of  a  longing  so  poignant  that  the  thought 
of  disappointment  became  insufferable  pain.  So 
violent  was  my  emotion  that  a  feeling  almost  of 
nausea  overcame  me. 

I  knew  now  that  I  cared  for  this  girl  more  than  I 
had  ever  thought  to  care  for  woman.  I  knew  that 
she  was  dearer  to  me  than  all  the  world  else;  I  knew 
that  my  love  for  her  would  live  as  long  as  life  is  long. 

I  knocked  at  the  door.     No  answer. 

220 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  221 

"  Berna,"  I  cried  in  a  faltering  whisper. 

Came  the  reply:  "  Who  is  there?  " 

"  Love,  love,  dear;  love  is  waiting." 

Then,  at  my  words,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
girl  was  before  me.  I  think  she  had  been  lying 
down,  for  her  soft  hair  was  a  little  ruffled,  but  her 
eyes  were  far  too  bright  for  sleep.  She  stood  gazing 
at  me,  and  a  little  fluttering  hand  went  up  to  her 
heart  as  if  to  still  its  beating. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  knew  you  were  coming." 

A  great  radiance  of  joy  seemed  to  descend  on  her. 

"You  knew?" 

"  I  knew,  yes,  I  knew.  Something  told  me  you 
were  come  at  last.  And  I've  waited — how  I've 
waited!  I've  dreamed,  but  it's  not  a  dream  now,  is 
it,  dear;  it's  you?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  me.  I've  tried  so  hard  to  find  you.  Oh, 
my  dear,  my  dear!  " 

I  seized  the  sweet,  soft  hand  and  covered  it  with 
kisses.  At  that  moment  I  could  have  kissed  the 
shadow  of  that  little  hand;  I  could  have  fallen  before 
her  in  speechless  adoration;  I  could  have  made  my 
heart  a  footstool  for  her  feet;  I  could  have  given  her, 
O,  so  gladly,  my  paltry  life  to  save  her  from  a  mo- 
ment's sorrow — I  loved  her  so,  I  loved  her  so ! 

"High  and  low  I've  sought  you,  beloved.  Morn- 
ing, noon  and  night  you've  been  in  my  brain,  my  heart, 
my  soul.  I've  loved  you  every  moment  of  my  life. 
It's  been  desire  feeding  despair,  and,  O,  the  agony  of 
it!  Thank  God,  I've  found  you,  dear!  thank  God  I 
thank  God!" 


222  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

O  Love,  look  down  on  us  and  choir  your  har- 
monies !  Transported  was  I,  speaking  with  whirling 
words  of  sweetest  madness,  tremulous,  uplifted  with 
rapture,  scarce  conscious  of  my  wild,  impassioned 
metaphors.  It  was  she,  most  precious  of  all  creation; 
she,  my  beloved.  And  there,  in  the  doorway,  she 
poised,  white  as  a  lily,  lustrous-eyed,  and  with  hair  soft 
as  sunlit  foam.  O  Divinity  of  Love,  look  down  on  us 
thy  children ;  fold  us  in  thy  dove-soft  wings ;  illumine 
us  in  thy  white  radiance;  touch  us  with  thy  celestial 
hands.     Bless  us.  Love  ! 

How  vastly  alight  were  the  grey  eyes!  How  in- 
effably tender  the  sweet  lips  !  A  faint  glow  had  come 
into  her  cheeks. 

"  O,  it's  you,  really,  really  you  at  last,"  she  cried 
again,  and  there  was  a  tremor,  the  surface  ripple  of  a 
sob  in  that  clear  voice.  She  fetched  a  deep  sigh: 
"  And  I  thought  I'd  lost  you  forever.  Wait  a  mo- 
ment.    I'll  come  out." 

Endlessly  long  the  moment  seemed,  yet  wondrously 
irradiate.  The  shadow  had  lifted  from  the  world; 
the  skies  were  alight  with  gladness;  my  heart  was 
heaven-aspiring  in  its  ecstasy.  Then,  at  last,  she 
came. 

She  had  thrown  a  shawl  around  her  shoulders, 
and  coaxed  her  hair  into  charming  waves  and  rip- 
ples. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  up  the  trail  a  little  distance. 
They  won't  be  back  for  nearly  an  hour." 

She  led  the  way  along  that  narrow  path,  looking 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  glorious  smile,  sometimes  ex- 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  223 

tending  her  hand  back  to  me  as  one  would  with  a 
child. 

Along  the  brow  of  the  bluff  the  way  wound  diz- 
zily, while  far  below  the  river  swept  in  a  giant  eddy. 
For  a  long  time  we  spoke  no  word.  'Twas  as  if  our 
hearts  were  too  full  for  utterance,  our  happiness  too 
vast  for  expression.  Yet,  O,  the  sweetness  of  that 
silence !  The  darkling  gloom  had  silvered  into 
lustrous  light,  the  birds  were  beginning  again  their 
mad  midnight  melodies.  Then,  suddenly  turning  a 
bend  in  the  narrow  trail,  a  blaze  of  glory  leapt  upon 
our  sight. 

"  Look,  Berna,"  I  cried. 

The  swelling  river  was  a  lake  of  saffron  fire;  the 
hills  a  throne  of  rosy  garnet;  the  sky  a  dazzling 
panoply  of  rubies,  girdled  with  flames  of  gold.  We 
almost  cringed,  so  gorgeous  was  its  glow,  so  fierce  its 
splendour. 

Then,  when  we  had  seated  ourselves  on  the  hill- 
side, facing  the  conflagration,  she  turned  to  me. 

"  And  so  you  found  me,  dear.  I  knew  you  would, 
somehow.  In  my  heart  I  knew  you  would  not  fail 
me.  So  I  waited  and  waited.  The  time  seemed  piti- 
lessly long.  I  only  thought  of  you  once,  and  that 
was  always.  It  was  cruel  we  left  so  suddenly,  not 
even  time  to  say  good-bye.  I  can't  tell  you  how  bad 
I  felt  about  it,  but  I  could  not  help  myself.  They 
dragged  me  away.  They  began  to  be  afraid  of  you, 
and  he  bade  them  leave  at  once.  So  in  the  early 
morning  we  started." 

"  I  see,  I  see."     I  looked  into  the  pools  of  her 


224  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

eyes;  I  sheathed  her  white  hands  in  my  brown  ones, 
thriUing  greatly  at  the  contact  of  them. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  child.  Has  he  bothered 
you?" 

"  Oh,  not  so  much.  He  thinks  he  has  me  safe 
enough,  trapped,  awaiting  his  pleasure.  But  he's 
taken  up  with  some  woman  of  the  town  just  now. 
By-and-bye  he'll  turn  his  attention  to  me." 

"  Terrible !  Terrible !  Berna,  you  wring  my 
heart.  How  can  you  talk  of  such  things  in  that  mat- 
ter-of-fact way — it  maddens  me." 

An  odd,  hard  look  ridged  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I'm  surprised  at  my- 
self how  philosophical  I'm  getting." 

"  But,  Berna,  surely  nothing  in  this  world  would 
ever  make  you  yield?     O,  it's  horrible!  horrible!  " 

She  leaned  to  me  tenderly.  She  put  my  arms 
around  her  neck;  she  looked  at  me  till  I  saw  my  face 
mirrored  in  her  eyes. 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,  dear,  so  long  as  I  have 
you  to  love  me  and  help  me.  If  ever  you  fail  me, 
well,  then  it  wouldn't  matter  much  what  became  of 
me." 

"  Even  then,"  I  said,  "  it  would  be  too  awful  for 
words.  I  would  rather  drag  your  body  from  that 
river  than  see  you  yield  to  him.  He's  a  monster. 
His  very  touch  is  profanation.  He  could  not  look  on 
a  woman  without  cynical  lust  in  his  heart." 

"  I  know,  my  boy,  I  know.  Believe  me  and  trust 
me.  I  would  rather  throw  myself  from  the  bluff 
here  than  let  him  put  a  hand  on  me.     And  so  long  as 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  225 

I  have  your  love,  dear,  I'm  safe  enough.  Don't  fear. 
O,  it's  been  terrible  not  seeing  you !  I've  craved  for 
you  ceaselessly.  I've  never  been  out  since  we  came 
here.  They  wouldn't  let  me.  They  kept  in  them- 
selves. He  bade  them.  He  has  them  both  under 
his  thumb.  But  now,  for  some  reason,  he  has  relaxed. 
They're  going  to  open  a  restaurant  downtown,  and 
I'm  to  wait  on  table." 

"No,  you're  not!  "  I  cried,  "not  if  I  have  any- 
thing to  say  in  the  matter.  Berna,  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  you  in  that  garbage-heap  of  corruption  down 
there.     You  must  marry  me — now." 

"  Now,"  she  echoed,  her  eyes  wide  with  sur- 
prise. 

"  Yes,  right  away,  dear.  There's  nothing  to  pre- 
vent us.  Berna,  I  love  you,  I  want  you,  I  need 
you.  I'm  just  distracted,  dear.  I  never  know  a  mo- 
ment's peace.  I  cannot  take  an  interest  in  anything. 
When  I  speak  to  others  I'm  thinking  of  you,  you  all 
the  time.  O,  I  can't  bear  it,  dearest;  have  pity  on 
me:  marry  me  now." 

In  an  agony  of  suspense  I  waited  for  her  answer. 
For  a  long  time  she  sat  there,  thoughtful  and  quiet, 
her  eyes  cast  down.     At  last  she  raised  them  to  me. 

"You  said  one  year." 

"Yes,  but  I  was  sorry  afterwards.  I  want  you 
now.      I  can't  wait." 

She  looked  at  me  gravely.  Her  voice  was  very 
soft,  very  tender. 

"  I  think  it  better  we  should  wait,  dear.  This  Is  a 
blind,  sudden  desire  on  your  part.     I  mustn't  take  ad- 


226  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

vantage  of  It.  You  pity  me,  fear  for  me,  and  you 
have  known  so  few  other  girls.  It's  generosity,  chiv- 
alry, not  love  for  poor  little  me.  O,  we  mustn't,  we 
mustn't.     And  then — you  might  change." 

"Change!  I'll  never,  never  change,"  I  pleaded. 
"  I'll  always  be  yours,  absolutely,  wholly  yours,  little 
girl;  body  and  soul,  to  make  or  to  mar,  for  ever  and 
ever  and  ever." 

"  Well,  it  seems  so  sudden,  so  burning,  so  intense, 
your  love,  dear.  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid.  Maybe  it's 
not  the  kind  that  lasts.  Maybe  you'll  tire.  I'm  not 
worth  it,  indeed  I'm  not.  I'm  only  a  poor  ignorant 
girl.  If  there  were  others  near,  you  would  never 
think  of  me." 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  if  you  were  among  a  thou- 
sand, and  they  were  the  most  adorable  in  all  the 
world,  I  would  pass  over  them  all  and  turn  with  joy 
and  gratitude  to  you.  Then,  if  I  were  an  Emperor 
on  a  throne,  and  you  the  humblest  in  all  that 
throng,  I  would  raise  you  up  beside  me  and  call  you 
'  Queen.'  " 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  said  sadly,  "  you  were  wise  once.  I 
saw  it  afterwards.     Better  wait  one  year." 

"  Oh,  my  dearest,"  I  reproached  her,  "  once  you 
offered  yourself  to  me  under  any  conditions.  Why 
have  you  changed?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  bitterly  ashamed  of  that. 
Never  speak  of  it  again." 

She  went  on  very  quietly,  full  of  gentle  patience. 

"  You  know,  I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  since 
then.     In  the  long,  long  days  and  longer  nights,  when 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  227 

I  waited  here  in  misery,  hoping  always  you  would 
come  to  me,  I  had  time  to  reflect,  to  weight  your 
words.  I  remember  them  all:  '  love  that  means  life 
and  death,  that  great  dazzling  light,  that  passion  that 
would  raise  to  heaven  or  drag  to  hell.'  You  have 
awakened  the  woman  in  me;  I  must  have  a  love  like 
that." 

"  You  have,  my  precious;  you  have,  indeed." 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  have  time  to  test  it.  This  is 
June.  Next  June,  if  you  have  not  made  up  your 
mind  you  were  foolish,  blind,  hasty,  I  will  give  my- 
self to  you  with  all  the  love  in  the  world." 

"  Perhaps  yoii  will  change." 

She  smiled  a  peculiar  little  smile. 

"  Never,  never  fear  that.  I  will  be  waiting  for 
you,  longing  for  you,  loving  you  more  and  more 
every  day." 

I  was  bitterly  cast  down,  crestfallen,  numbed  with 
the  blow  of  her  refusal. 

"Just  now,"  she  said,  "  I  would  only  be  a  drag 
on  you.  I  believe  in  you.  I  have  faith  in  you.  I 
want  to  see  you  go  out  and  mix  in  the  battle  of  life. 
I  know  you  will  win.  For  my  sake,  dear,  win.  I 
would  handicap  you  just  now.  There  are  all  kinds 
of  chances.     Let  us  wait,  boy,  just  a  year." 

I  saw  the  pathetic  wisdom  of  her  words. 

"  I  know  you  fear  something  will  happen  to  me. 
No!  I  think  I  will  be  quite  safe.  I  can  withstand 
him.  After  a  while  he  will  leave  me  alone.  And 
if  it  should  come  to  the  worst  I  can  call  on  you.  You 
mustn't  go  too  far  away.      I  will  die  rather  than  let 


228  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

him  lay  a  hand  on  me.  Till  next  June,  dear,  not  a 
day  longer.  We  will  both  be  the  better  for  the 
wait." 

I  bowed  my  head.  "  Very  well,"  I  said  huskily; 
"  and  what  will  I  do  in  the  meantime?  " 

"  Do!  Do  what  you  would  have  done  otherwise. 
Do  not  let  a  woman  divert  the  current  of  your  life;  let 
her  swim  with  it.  Go  out  on  the  creeks !  Work !  It 
will  be  better  for  you  to  go  away.  It  will  make  it 
easier  for  me.  Here  we  will  both  torture  each  other. 
I,  too,  will  work  and  live  quietly,  and  long  for  you. 
The  time  will  pass  quickly.  You  will  come  and  see 
me  sometimes?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  My  voice  choked  with  emo- 
tion. 

"  Now  we  must  go  home,"  she  said;  "  I'm  afraid 
they  will  be  back." 

She  rose,  and  I  followed  her  down  the  narrow 
trail.  Once  or  twice  she  turned  and  gave  me  a 
bright,  tender  look.  I  worshipped  her  more  than  ever. 
Was  there  ever  maid  more  sweet,  more  gentle,  more 
quick  with  anxious  love?  "  Bless  her,  O  bless  her," 
I  sighed.  "  Whatever  comes,  may  she  be  happy."  I 
adored  her,  but  a  great  sadness  filled  my  heart,  and 
never  a  word  I  spoke. 

We  reached  the  cabin,  and  on  the  threshold  she 
paused.  The  others  had  not  yet  returned.  She  held 
out  both  hands  to  me,  and  her  eyes  were  glittering 
with  tears. 

"  Be  brave,  my  dearest;  it's  all  for  my  sake — if  you 
love  me." 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  229 

"  I  love  you,  my  darling;  anything  for  your  sake. 
I'll  go  to-morrow." 

"We're  betrothed  now,  aren't  we,  dearest?" 

"  We're  betrothed,  my  love." 

She  swayed  to  me  and  seemed  to  fit  Into  my  arms 
as  a  sword  fits  into  its  sheath.  My  lips  lay  on  hers, 
and  I  kissed  her  with  a  passionate  joy.  She  took 
my  face  between  her  hands  and  gazed  at  me  long  and 
earnestly. 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  she  murmured;  "next 
June,  my  darling,  next  June." 

Then  she  gently  slipped  away  from  me,  and  I  was 
gazing  blankly  at  the  closed  door. 

"  Next  June,"  I  heard  a  voice  echo;  and  there, 
looking  at  me  with  a  smile,  was  Locasto. 


% 


CHAPTER  VIII 

It  comes  like  a  violent  jar  to  be  awakened  so  rudely 
from  a  trance  of  love,  to  turn  suddenly  from  the  one 
you  care  for  most  in  all  the  world,  and  behold  the 
one  you  have  best  reason  to  hate.  Nevertheless,  it 
is  not  in  human  nature  to  descend  rocket-wise  from 
the  ethereal  heights  of  love.  I  was  still  in  an  exalted 
state  of  mind  when  I  turned  and  confronted  Locasto. 
Hate  was  far  from  my  heart,  and  when  I  saw  the  man 
himself  was  regarding  me  with  no  particular  un- 
friendliness, I  was  disposed  to  put  aside  for  the  mo- 
ment all  feelings  of  enmity.  The  generosity  of  the 
victor  glowed  within  me. 

As  he  advanced  to  me  his  manner  was  almost  ur- 
bane in  its  geniality. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,"  he  said,  not  without  dig- 
nity, "  for  overhearing  you;  but  by  chance  I  was 
passing  and  dropped  upon  you  before  I  realised 
it." 

He  extended  his  hand  frankly. 

"  I  trust  my  congratulations  on  your  good  luck 
will  not  be  entirely  obnoxious.  I  know  that  my  con- 
duct in  this  affair  cannot  have  impressed  you  in  a 
very  favourable  light;  but  I  am  a  badly  beaten  man. 
Can't  you  be  generous  and  let  by-gones  be  by-gones  ? 
Won't  you?" 

I  had  not  yet  come  down  to  earth.     I  was  still 

230 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  231 

soaring  in  the  rarefied  heights  of  love,  and  inclined 
to  a  general  amnesty  towards  my  enemies. 

As  he  stood  there,  quiet  and  compelling,  there  was 
an  assumption  of  frankness  and  honesty  about  this 
man  that  it  was  hard  to  withstand.  For  the  nonce  I 
was  persuaded  of  his  sincerity,  and  weakly  I  sur- 
rendered my  hand.     His  grip  made  me  wince. 

*'  Yes,  again  I  congratulate  you.  I  know  and  ad- 
mire her.  They  don't  make  them  any  better.  She's 
pure  gold.  She's  a  little  queen,  and  the  man  she  cares 
for  ought  to  be  proud  and  happy.  Now,  I'm  a  man 
of  the  world,  I'm  cynical  about  woman  as  a  rule.     I 

respect  my  mother  and  my  sisters — beyond  that " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively. 

"  But  this  girl's  different.  I  always  felt  in  her 
presence  as  I  used  to  feel  twenty-five  years  ago  when 
I  was  a  youth,  with  all  my  ideals  untarnished,  my 
heart  pure,  and  woman  holy  in  my  sight." 

He  sighed. 

"  You  know,  young  man,  I've  never  told  it  to  a 
soul  before,  but  I'd  give  all  I'm  worth — a  clear  mil- 
lion— to  have  those  days  back.  I've  never  been 
happy  since." 

He  drew  away  quickly  from  the  verge  of  senti- 
ment. 

"  Well,  you  mustn't  mind  me  taking  an  interest  in 
your  sweetheart.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  her  father, 
you  know,  and  she  touches  me  strangely.  Now,  don't 
distrust  me.  I  want  to  be  a  friend  to  you  both.  I 
want  to  help  you  to  be  happy.  Jack  Locasto's  not 
such  a  bad  lot,  as  you'll  find  when  you  know  him.    Is 


232  THE   TRAIL  OF   '98 

there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?     What  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  in  this  country?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know  yet,"  I  said.  "  I  hope  to 
stake  a  good  claim  when  the  chance  comes.  Mean- 
time I'm  going  to  get  work  on  the  creeks." 

"  You  are?  "  he  said  thoughtfully;  "  do  you  know 
any  one?  " 

"No." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what:  I've  got  laymen  work- 
ing on  my  Eldorado  claim;  I'll  give  you  a  note  to 
them  if  you  like." 

I  thanked  him. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  I 
played  such  a  mean  part  in  the  past,  and  I'll  do  any- 
thing in  my  power  to  straighten  things  out.  Believe 
me,  I  mean  it.  Your  English  friend  gave  me  the 
worst  drubbing  of  my  life,  but  three  days  after  I  went 
round  and  shook  hands  with  him.  Fine  fellow  that. 
We  opened  a  case  of  wine  to  celebrate  the  victory. 
Oh,  we're  good  friends  now.  I  always  own  up  when 
I'm  beaten,  and  I  never  bear  ill-will.  If  I  can  help 
you  in  any  way,  and  hasten  your  marriage  to  that  little 
girl  there,  well,  you  can  just  bank  on  Jack  Locasto: 
that's  all." 

I  must  say  the  man  could  be  most  conciliating  when 
he  chose.  There  was  a  gravity  in  his  manner,  a  suave 
courtesy  in  his  tone,  the  heritage  of  his  Spanish  fore- 
fathers, that  convinced  me  almost  in  spite  of  my 
better  judgment.  No  doubt  he  was  magnetic,  dom- 
inating, a  master  of  men.  I  thought :  there  are  two 
Locastos,  the  primordial  one,  the  Indian,  who  had  as- 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  233 

saulted  me ;  and  the  dignified  genial  one,  the  Spaniard, 
who  was  willing  to  own  defeat  and  make  amends. 
Why  should  I  not  take  him  as  I  found  him  ? 

So,  as  he  talked  entertainingly  to  me,  my  fears  were 
dissipated,  my  suspicions  lulled.  And  when  we 
parted  we  shook  hands  cordially. 

"  Don't  forget,"  he  said;  "  if  you  want  help  bank 

on  me.     I  mean  it  now,  I  mean  it." 

******* 

'Twas  early  in  the  bright  and  cool  of  the  morning 
when  we  started  for  Eldorado,  Jim  and  I.  I  had  a 
letter  from  Locasto  to  Ribwood  and  Hoofman,  the 
laymen,  and  I  showed  It  to  Jim.     He  frowned. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  palled  up  with  that 
devil,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  he's  not  so  bad,"  I  expostulated.  "  He  came 
to  me  like  a  man  and  offered  me  his  hand  in  friend- 
ship. Said  'he  was  ashamed  of  himself.  What 
could  I  do?     I've  no  reason  to  doubt  his  sincerity." 

"  Sincerity  be  danged.  He's  about  as  sincere  as  a 
tame  rattlesnake.      Put  his  letter  in  the  creek." 

But  no !      I  refused  to  listen  to  the  old  man. 

"  Well,  go  your  own  gait,"  he  said;  "but  don't  say 
that  I  didn't  warn  you." 

We  had  crossed  over  the  Klondike  to  its  left  limit, 
and  were  on  a  hillside  trail  beaten  down  by  the  feet 
of  miners  and  packers.  Cabins  clustered  on  the  flat, 
and  from  them  plumes  of  violet  smoke  mounted  Into 
the  golden  air.  Already  the  camp  was  astir.  Men 
were  chopping  their  wood,  carrying  their  water.  The 
long,  long  day  was  beginning. 


234  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

Following  the  trail,  we  struck  up  Bonanza,  a  small 
muddy  stream  in  a  narrow  valley.  Down  in  the  creek- 
bed  we  could  see  ever-increasing  signs  of  an  intense 
mining  activity.  On  every  claim  were  dozens  of  cab- 
ins, and  many  high  cones  of  greyish  muck.  We  saw 
men  standing  on  raised  platforms  turning  windlasses. 
We  saw  buckets  come  up  filled  with  the  same  dark 
grey  dirt,  to  be  dumped  over  the  edge  of  the  platform. 
Sometimes,  where  the  dump  had  gradually  arisen 
around  man  and  windlass,  the  platform  in  the  centre 
of  that  dark-greyish  cone  was  twenty  feet  high. 

Every  mile  the  dumps  grew  more  numerous,  till 
some  claims  seemed  covered  with  them.  Looking 
down  from  the  trail,  they  were  like  innumerable  ant- 
hills blocking  up  the  narrow  channel,  and  around  them 
swarmed  the  little  ant-men  in  never-resting  activity. 
The  golden  valley  opened  out  to  us  in  a  vista  of  green 
curves,  and  the  cleft  of  it  was  packe'd  with  tents, 
cabins,  dumps  and  tailing  piles,  all  bedded  in  a  blue 
haze  of  wood  fires. 

"  Look  at  that  great  centipede  striding  across  the 
valley,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jim,  "  it's  a  long  line  of  sluice-boxes. 
See  the  water  a-shinin'  in  the  sun.  Looks  like  some 
big  golden-backed  caterpillar." 

The  little  ants  were  shovelling  into  it  from  one  of 
their  heaps,  and  from  that  point  it  swirled  on  into  the 
stream,  a  current  of  mud  and  stone. 

*'  Seems  to  me  that  stream  would  wash  away  all  the 
gold,"  I  said.  "  I  know  it's  all  caught  in  the  riffles, 
but  I  think  if  that  dump  was  mine  I  would  want  sluice- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  235 

boxes  a  mile  long  and  about  sixteen  hundred  riffles. 
But  I  guess  they  know  what  they  are  doing." 

About  noon  we  descended  into  the  creek-bed  and 
came  to  the  Forks.  It  was  a  little  town,  a  Dawson 
in  miniature,  with  all  its  sordid  aspects  infinitely  ac- 
centuated. It  had  dance-halls,  gambling  dens  and 
many  saloons:  every  convenience  to  ease  the  miner  of 
the  plethoric  poke.  There  in  the  din  and  daze  and 
dirt  we  tarried  awhile;  then,  after  eating  heartily,  we 
struck  up  Eldorado. 

Here  was  the  same  feverish  activity  of  gold-getting. 
Every  claim  was  valued  at  millions,  and  men  who  had 
rarely  owned  enough  to  buy  a  decent  coat  were  cry- 
ing in  the  saloons  because  life  was  not  long  enough  to 
allow  them  to  spend  their  sudden  wealth.  Neverthe- 
less, they  were  making  a  good  stab  at  it.  At  the 
Forks  I  enquired  regarding  Ribwood  and  Hoofman: 
"Goin'  to  work  for  them,  are  you?  Well,  they've 
got  a  blamed  hard  name.  If  you  get  a  job  else- 
where, don't  turn  it  down." 

Jim  left  me;  he  would  work  on  no  claim  of  Lo- 
casto's,  he  said.  He  had  a  friend,  a  layman,  who 
was  a  good  man,  belonged  to  the  Army.  He  would 
try  him.     So  we  parted. 

Ribwood  was  a  tall,  gaunt  Cornishman,  with  a  nar- 
row, jutting  face  and  a  gloomy  air;  Hoofman,  a  burly, 
beet-coloured  Australian  with  a  bulging  stomach. 

"  Yes,  we'll  put  you  to  work,"  said  Hoofman,  read- 
ing the  letter.      "  Get  your  coat  off  and  shovel  in." 

So,  right  away,  I  found  myself  in  the  dump-pile, 
jamming  a  shovel  into  the  pay-dirt  and  swinging  it 


236  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

into  a  sluice-box  five  feet  higher  than  my  head. 
Keeping  at  this  hour  after  hour  was  no  fun,  and  if 
ever  a  man  desisted  for  a  moment  the  hard  eyes  of 
Hoofman  were  upon  him,  and  the  gloomy  Ribwood 
had  snatched  up  a  shovel  and  was  throwing  in  the 
muck  furiously. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  he  would  shout;  "  make  the  dirt 
fly.  'Taint  every  part  of  the  world  you  fellers  can 
make  your  ten  bucks  a  day." 

And  it  can  be  said  that  never  labourer  proved  him- 
self more  worthy  of  his  hire  than  the  pick-and-shovel 
man  of  those  early  days.  Few  could  stand  it  long 
without  resting.  They  were  lean  as  wolves  those 
men  of  the  dump  and  drift,  and  their  faces  were 
gouged  and  grooved  with  relentless  toil. 

Well,  for  three  days  I  made  the  dirt  fly;  but 
towards  quitting  time,  I  must  say,  its  flight  was  a  very 
uncertain  one.  Again  I  suffered  all  the  tortures  of 
becoming  toil-broken,  the  old  aches  and  pains  of  the 
tunnel  and  the  gravel-pit.  Towards  evening  every 
shovelful  of  dirt  seemed  to  weigh  as  much  as  if  it  was 
solid  gold;  indeed,  the  stuff  seemed  to  get  richer  and 
richer  as  the  day  advanced,  and  during  the  last  half- 
hour  I  judged  it  must  be  nearly  all  nuggets.  The 
constant  hoisting  into  the  overhead  sluice-box  some- 
how worked  muscles  that  had  never  gone  into  action 
before,  and  I  ached  elaborately. 

In  the  morning  the  pains  were  fiercest.  How  I 
groaned  until  the  muscles  became  limber.  I  found 
myself  using  very  rough  language,  groaning,  gritting 
my  teeth  viciously.     But  I  stayed  with  the  work  and 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  237 

held  up  my  end,  while  the  laymen  watched  us 
sedulously,  and  seemed  to  grudge  us  even  a  moment 
to  wipe  the  sweat  out  of  our  blinded  -yes. 

I  was  glad,  indeed,  when,  on  the  evening  of  the 
third  day,  Ribwood  came  to  me  and  said : 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  work  up  at  the  shaft  to- 
morrow.    We  want  a  man  to  wheel  muck." 

They  had  a  shaft  sunk  on  the  hillside.  They  were 
down  some  forty  feet  and  were  drifting  in,  wheeling 
the  pay-dirt  down  a  series  of  planks  placed  on  trestles 
to  the  dump.  I  gripped  the  handles  of  a  wheelbar- 
row loaded  to  overspilling,  and  steered  it  down  that 
long,  unsteady  gangway  full  of  uneven  joins  and  sud- 
den angles.  Time  and  again  I  ran  off  the  track, 
but  after  the  first  day  I  became  quite  an  expert  at 
the  business.  My  spirits  rose.  I  was  on  the  way 
of  becoming  a  miner. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Turning  the  windlass  over  the  shaft  was  a  little, 
tough  mud-rat,  who  excited  in  me  the  liveliest  sense  of 
aversion.  Pat  Doogan  was  his  name,  but  I  will  call 
him  the  "  Worm." 

The  Worm  was  the  foulest-mouthed  specimen  I 
have  yet  met.  He  had  the  lowest  forehead  I  have 
ever  seen  in  a  white  man,  and  such  a  sharp,  ferrety 
little  face.  His  reddish  hair  had  the  prison  clip,  and 
his  little  reddish  eyes  were  alive  with  craft  and  cruelty. 
I  noticed  he  always  regarded  me  with  a  peculiarly 
evil  grin,  that  wrinkled  up  his  cheeks  and  revealed  his 
hideously  blackened  teeth.  From  the  first  he  gave  me 
a  creepy  feeling,  a  disgust  as  if  I  were  near  some  slimy 
reptile. 

Yet  the  Worm  tried  to  make  up  to  me.  He  would 
tell  me  stories  blended  of  the  horrible  and  the 
grotesque.     One  in  particular  I  remember. 

"  Youse  wanta  know  how  I  lost  me  last  job.  Til 
tell  youse.  You  see,  it  was  like  dis.  Dere  was  two 
Blackmoor  guys  dat  got  into  de  country  dis  Spring; 
came  by  St.  Michaels;  Hindoos  dey  was.  One 
of  dem  'Sicks'  (an'  dey  looked  sick,  dey  was  so 
loose  an'  weary  in  der  style)  got  a  job  from  old  man 
Gustafson  down  de  shaft  muckin'  up  and  fillin'  de 
buckets. 

"  Well,  dere  was  dat  Blackmoor  down  In  de  deep 

238 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  239 

hole  one  day  when  I  comes  along,  an'  strikes  old  Gus 
for  a  job.  So,  seem'  as  de  man  on  de  windlass 
wanted  to  quit,  he  passed  it  up  to  me,  an'  I  toolc  right 
hold  an'  started  in. 

"  Say,  I  was  feelin'  powerful  mean.  I'd  just  fin- 
ished up  a  two  weeks'  drunk,  an'  you  tink  de  booze 
wasn't  workin'  in  me  some.  I  was  seein'  all  kinds 
of  funny  t'ings.  Why,  as  I  was  a-turnin'  away 
at  dat  ol'  windlass  dere  was  red  spiders  crawlin'  up 
me  legs.  But  I  was  wise.  I  wouldn't  look  at  dem, 
give  dem  de  go-by.  Den  a  yeller  rat  got  gay  wid 
me  an'  did  some  stunts  on  me  windlass.  But  still  I 
wouldn't  let  on.  Den  dere  was  some  green  snakes 
dat  wriggled  over  de  platform  like  shiny  streaks  on 
de  water.  Sure,  I  didn't  like  dat  one  bit,  but  I 
says,  '  Dere  ain't  no  snakes  in  de  darned  country, 
Pat,  and  you  knows  it.  It's  just  a  touch  of  de  hor- 
rors, dat's  all.  Just  pass  'em  up,  boy;  don't  take  no 
notice  of  dem.' 

"  Well,  dis  went  on  till  I  begins  to  get  all  shaky 
an'  jumpy,  an'  I  was  mighty  glad  when  de  time  came 
to  quit,  an'  de  boys  down  below  gives  me  de  holler  to 
pull  dem  up. 

"  So  I  started  hoistin'  wid  dose  snakes  an'  spiders 
an'  rats  jus'  cavortin'  round  me  like  mad,  when  all 
to  once  who  should  I  hoist  outa  de  bowels  of  de  earth 
but  de  very  devil  himself. 

"  His  face  was  black.  I  could  see  de  whites  of  his 
eyes,  an'  he  had  a  big  dirty  towel  tied  round  his  head. 
Well,  say,  it  was  de  limit.  At  de  sight  of  dat  fero- 
cious monster  comin'  after  old  Pat  I  gives  one  yell, 


240  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

drops  de  crank-handle  of  de  windlass,  an'  makes  a 
flyin'  leap  down  de  dump.  I  hears  an  awful  shriek, 
an'  de  bucket  an'  de  devil  goes  down  smash  to  de 
bottom  of  de  shaft,  t'irty-five  feet.  But  I  kep'  on 
runnin'.     I  was  so  scared. 

"Well,  how  was  I  to  know  dey  had  a  Blackmoor 
down  dere?  He  was  a  stiff  when  dey  got  him  up, 
but  how  was  I  to  know?     So  I  lost  me  job." 

On  another  occasion  he  told  me : 

"  Say,  kid,  youse  didn't  know  as  I  was  liable  to 
fits,  did  youse?  Dat's  so;  eppylepsy  de  doctor  tells 
me.  Dat's  what  I  am  scared  of.  You  see,  it's  like 
dis:  if  one  of  dem  fits  should  hit  me  when  I'm  hoistin' 
de  boys  outer  de  shaft,  den  it  would  be  a  pity.  I 
would  sure  lose  me  job  like  de  oder  time." 

He  was  the  most  degraded  type  of  man  I  had  yet 
met  on  my  travels,  a  typical  degenerate,  dirty, 
drunken,  diseased.  He  had  three  suits  of  under- 
clothing, which  he  never  washed.  He  would  wear 
through  all  three  in  succession,  and  when  the  last  got 
too  dirty  for  words  he  would  throw  it  under  his 
trunk  and  sorrowfully  go  back  to  the  first,  keeping 
up  this  rotation  till  all  were  worn  out. 

One  day  Hoofman  told  me  he  wanted  me  to  go 
down  the  shaft  and  work  in  the  drift.  Accordingly, 
next  morning  I  and  a  huge  Slav,  by  name  Dooley 
Rileyvich,  were  lowered  down  into  the  darkness. 

The  Slav  initiated  me.  Every  foot  of  dirt  had 
to  be  thawed  out  by  means  of  wood  fires.  We  built 
a  fire  at  the  far  end  of  the  drift  every  night,  covering 
the   face   we   were   working.     First   we   would   lay 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  241 

kindling,  then  dry  spruce  lying  lengthways,  then  a 
bank  of  green  wood  standing  on  end  to  keep  in  the 
heat  and  shed  the  dirt  that  sloughed  down  from  the 
roof.  In  the  morning  our  fire  would  be  burned  out, 
and  enough  pay-dirt  thawed  to  keep  us  picking  all 
day. 

Down  there  I  found  it  the  hardest  work  of  all. 
We  had  to  be  careful  that  the  smoke  had  cleared  from 
the  drift  before  we  ventured  in,  for  frequently  miners 
were  asphyxiated.  Indeed,  the  bad  air  never  went 
entirely  away.  It  made  my  eyes  sore,  my  head  ache. 
Yet,  curiously  enough,  so  long  as  you  were  below 
it  did  not  affect  you  so  much.  It  was  when  you 
stepped  out  of  the  bucket  and  struck  the  pure  outer 
air  that  you  reeled  and  became  dizzy.  It  was  blind- 
ing, too.  Often  at  supper  have  my  eyes  been  so 
blurred  and  sore  I  had  to  grope  around  uncertainly 
for  the  sugar  bowl  and  the  tin  of  cream. 

In  the  drift  it  was  always  cool.  The  dirt  kept 
sloughing  down  on  us,  and  we  had  really  gone  in  too 
far  for  our  own  safety,  but  the  laymen  cared  little  for 
that.  At  the  end  of  the  drift  the  roof  was  so  low 
we  were  bent  almost  double,  picking  at  the  face  in  all 
kinds  of  cramped  positions,  and  dragging  after  us  the 
heavy  bucket.  To  the  big  Slav  it  was  all  in  the  day's 
work,  but  to  me  it  was  hard,  hard. 

The  shaft  was  almost  forty  feet  deep.  For  the  first 
ten  feet  a  ladder  ran  down  it,  then  stopped  suddenly 
as  if  the  excavators  had  decided  to  abandon  it.  I 
often  looked  at  this  useless  bit  of  ladder  and  won- 
dered why  it  had  been  left  unfinished. 


242  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Every  morning  the  Worm  hoisted  us  down  into 
the  darkness,  and  at  night  drew  us  up.  Once  he  said 
to  me: 

"  Say,  wouldn't  it  be  de  tough  luck  if  I  was  to 
take  a  fit  when  I  was  hoistin'  youse  up?  Such  a  nice 
bit  of  a  boy,  too,  an'  I  guess  I'd  lose  my  job  over  de 
head  of  it." 

I  said:  "  Cut  that  out,  or  you'll  have  me  so  scared 
I  won't  go  down." 

He  grinned  unpleasantly  and  said  nothing  more. 
Yet  somehow  he  was  getting  on  my  nerves  terribly. 

It  was  one  evening  we  had  banked  our  fires  and 
were  ready  to  be  hoisted  up.  Dooley  Rileyvich  went 
first,  and  I  watched  him  blot  out  the  bit  of  blue  for  a 
while.     Then,  slowly,  down  came  the  bucket  for  me. 

I  got  in.  I  was  feeling  uneasy  all  of  a  sudden,  and 
devoutly  wished  I  were  anywhere  else  but  in  that 
hideous  hole.  I  felt  myself  leave  the  ground  and  rise 
steadily.  The  walls  of  the  shaft  glided  past  me. 
Up,  up  I  went.  The  bit  of  blue  sky  grew  bigger,  big- 
ger. There  was  a  star  shining  there.  I  watched  it. 
I  heard  the  creak,  creak  of  the  windlass  crank. 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  have  a  sinister  sound.  It 
seemed  to  say:  "  Have  a  care,  have  a  care,  have  a 
care."  I  was  now  ten  feet  from  the  top.  The 
bucket  was  rocking  a  little,  so  I  put  out  my  hand  and 
grasped  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder  to  steady  my- 
self. 

Then,  at  that  instant,  It  seemed  the  weight  of  the 
bucket  pressing  up  against  my  feet  was  suddenly  re- 
moved, and  my  arm  was  nigh  jerked  out  of  its  socket. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  243 

There  I  was  hanging  desperately  on  the  lowest  rung 
of  the  ladder,  while,  with  a  crash  that  made  my  heart 
sick,  the  bucket  dashed  to  the  bottom.  At  last,  I 
realised,  the  Worm  had  had  his  fit. 

Quickly  I  gripped  with  both  hands.  With  a  great 
effort  I  raised  myself  rung  by  rung  on  the  ladder.  I 
was  panic-stricken,  faint  with  fear;  but  some  instinct 
had  made  me  hold  on  desperately.  Dizzily  I  hung 
all  a-shudder,  half-sobbing.  A  minute  seemed  like 
a  year. 

Ah !  there  was  the  face  of  Dooley  looking  down  on 
me.  He  saw  me  clinging  there.  He  was  anxiously 
shouting  to  me  to  come  up.  Mastering  an  over- 
powering nausea  I  raised  myself.  At  last  I  felt  his 
strong  arm  around  me,  and  here  I  swear  it  on  a  stack 
of  Bibles  that  brutish  Slav  seemed  to  me  like  one  of 
God's  own  angels. 

I  was  on  firm  ground  once  more.  The  Worm  was 
lying  stiff  and  rigid.  Without  a  word  the  stalwart 
Slav  took  him  on  his  brawny  shoulder.  The  creek 
was  down-hill  but  fifty  yards.  Ere  we  reached  it  the 
Worm  had  begun  to  show  signs  of  reviving  conscious- 
ness. When  we  got  to  the  edge  of  the  icy  water  he 
was  beginning  to  groan  and  open  his  eyes  in  a  dazed 
way. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  he  says  to  Rileyvich;  "you 
Slavonian  swine,  lemme  go." 

Not  so  the  Slav.  Holding  the  wriggling,  writhing 
little  man  in  his  powerful  arms  he  plunged  him  heels 
over  head  in  the  muddy  current  of  the  creek. 

"  I  guess  I  cure  dose  fits  anyway,"  he  said  grimly. 


244  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Struggling,  spluttering,  blaspheming,  the  little  man 
freed  himself  at  last  and  staggered  ashore.  He 
cursed  Rileyvich  most  comprehensively.  He  had  not 
yet  seen  me,  and  I  heard  him  wailing: 

"  Sure  de  boy's  a  stiff.  Just  me  luck;  I've  lost  me 
job." 


CHAPTER  X 

"  You'd  better  quit,"  said  the  Prodigal. 

It  was  the  evening  of  my  mishap,  and  he  had  ar- 
rived unexpectedly  from  town. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to,"  I  answered.  "  I  wouldn't  go 
down  there  again  for  a  farm.  I  feel  as  weak,  as  a 
sick  baby.     I  couldn't  stay  another  day." 

"  Well,  that  goes,"  said  he.  "  It  just  fits  in  with 
my  plans.  I'm  getting  Jim  to  come  in,  too.  I've 
realised  on  that  stuff  I  bought,  made  over  three  thou- 
sand clear  profit,  and  with  it  I've  made  a  dicker  for 
a  property  on  the  bench  above  Bonanza,  Gold  Hill 
they  call  it.  I've  a  notion  it's  all  right.  Anyway, 
we'll  tunnel  in  and  see.  You  and  Jim  will  have  a 
quarter  share  each  for  your  work,  while  I'll  have  an 
extra  quarter  for  the  capital  I've  put  in.    Is  it  a  go?  " 

I  said  it  was. 

"  Thought  it  would  be.  I've  had  the  papers  made 
out;  you  can  sign  right  now." 

So  I  signed,  and  next  day  found  us  all  three  sur- 
veying our  claim.  We  put  up  a  tent,  but  the  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  build  a  cabin.  Right  away  we 
began  to  level  off  the  ground.  The  work  was  pleas- 
ant, and  conducted  in  such  friendship  that  the  time 
passed  most  happily.  Indeed,  my  only  worry  was 
about  Berna.  She  had  never  ceased  to  be  at  the  fore- 
front of  my  mind.     I  schooled  myself  into  the  belief 

245 


246  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

that  she  was  all  right,  but,  thank  God,  every  moment 
was  bringing  her  nearer  to  me. 

One  morning,  when  we  were  out  in  the  woods  cut- 
ting timber  for  the  cabin,  I  said  to  Jim : 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  more  about  that  man 
Mosely?" 

He  stopped  chopping,  and  lowered  the  axe  he  had 
poised  aloft. 

"  No,  boy;  I've  had  no  mail  at  all.     Wait  awhile." 

He  swung  his  axe  with  viciously  forceful  strokes. 
His  cheery  face  had  become  so  downcast  that  I  bit- 
terly blamed  myself  for  my  want  of  tact.  However, 
the  cloud  soon  passed. 

About  two  days  after  that  the  Prodigal  said  to  me: 

*'  I  saw  your  little  guttersnipe  friend  to-day." 

''Indeed,  where?"  I  asked;  for  I  had  often 
thought  of  the  Worm,  thought  of  him  with  fear  and 
loathing. 

"  Well,  sir,  he  was  just  getting  the  grandest  dress- 
ing-down I  ever  saw  a  man  get.  And  do  you  know 
who  was  handing  it  to  him — Locasto,  no  less." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  inhaled  the  smoke. 

"  I  was  just  coming  along  the  trail  from  the  Forks 
when  I  suddenly  heard  voices  in  the  bush.  The  big 
man  was  saying: 

Lookee  here,  Pat,  you  know  if  I  just  liked  to 
say  half  a  dozen  words  I  could  land  you  in  the  peni- 
tentiary for  the  rest  of  your  days.' 

"  Then  the  little  man's  wheedling  voice: 

Well,  I  did  me  best,  Jack.  I  know  I  bungled 
the  job,  but  youse  don't  want  to  cast  dem  t'ings  up 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  247 

to  me.  Dere's  more  dan  me  orter  be  in  de  pen. 
Dere's  no  good  in  de  pot  callin'  de  kettle  black,  is 
dere? ' 

"  Then  Black  Jack  flew  off  the  handle.  You  know 
he's  got  a  system  of  manhandling  that's  near  the  rec- 
ord in  these  parts.  Well,  he  just  landed  on  the  little 
man.  He  got  him  down  and  started  to  lambast  the 
Judas  out  of  him.  He  gave  him  the  '  leather,'  and 
then  some.  I  guess  he'd  have  done  him  to  a  finish 
hadn't  I  been  Johnnie  on  the  spot.  At  sight  of  me 
he  gives  a  curse,  jumps  on  his  horse  and  goes  off  at  a 
canter.  Well,  I  propped  the  little  man  against  a 
tree,  and  then  some  fellows  came  along,  and  we  got 
him  some  brandy.  But  he  was  badly  done  up.  He 
kept  saying:  'Oh,  de  devil,  de  big  devil,  sure  I'll 
give  him  his  before  I  get  t'rough.'  Funny,  wasn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  it's  strange;"  and  for  some  time  I  pondered 
over  the  remarkable  strangeness  of  it. 

*'  That  reminds  me,"  said  Jim;  "  has  any  one  seen 
the  Jam-wagon?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  the  Prodigal;  "  poor  beggar! 
he's  down  and  out.  After  the  fight  he  went  to  pieces, 
every  one  treating  him,  and  so  on.  You  remember 
Bullhammer?  " 

"  Yes." 

*'  Well,  the  last  I  saw  of  the  Jam-wagon — he  was 

cleaning  cuspidors  in  Bullhammer's  saloon." 

******* 

We  had  hauled  the  logs  for  the  cabin,  and  the 
foundation  was  laid.     Now  we  were  building  up  the 


248  THE   TRAIL  OF   '98 

walls,  placing  between  every  log  a  thick  wadding  of 
moss.  Every  day  saw  our  future  home  nearer  com- 
pletion. 

One  evening  I  spied  the  saturnine  Ribwood  climb- 
ing the  hill  to  our  tent.     He  hailed  me : 

"  Say,  you're  just  the  man  I  want." 

"  What  for?  "  I  asked;  "  not  to  go  down  that  shaft 
agam  i 

"  No.  Say!  we  want  a  night  watchman  up  at  the 
claim  to  go  on  four  hours  a  night  at  a  dollar  an 
hour.  You  see,  there's  been  a  lot  of  sluice-box  rob- 
beries lately,  and  we're  scared  for  our  clean-up. 
We're  running  two  ten-hour  shifts  now  and  cleaning 
up  every  three  days ;  but  there's  four  hours  every  night 
the  place  is  deserted,  and  Hoofman  proposed  we 
should  get  you  to  keep  watch." 

"  Yes,"  I  said;  "  I'll  run  up  every  evening  if  the 
others  don't  object." 

They  did  not;  so  the  next  night,  and  for  about  a 
dozen  after  that,  I  spent  the  darkest  hours  watching 
on  the  claim  where  previously  I  had  worked. 

There  was  never  any  real  darkness  down  there  in 
that  narrow  valley,  but  there  was  dusk  of  a  kind  that 
made  everything  grey  and  uncertain.  It  was  a  vague, 
nebulous  atmosphere  in  which  objects  merged  into 
each  other  confusedly.  Bushes  came  down  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  where  we  were  working,  dense-growing 
alder  and  birch  that  would  have  concealed  a  whole 
regiment  of  sluice-robbers. 

It  was  the  dimmest  and  most  uncertain  hour  of  the 
four,  and  I  was  sitting  at  my  post  of  guard.     As  the 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  249 

night  was  chilly  I  had  brought  along  an  old  grey 
blanket,  similar  in  colour  to  the  mound  of  the  pay- 
dirt.  There  had  been  quite  a  cavity  dug  In  the  dump 
during  the  day,  and  Into  this  I  crawled  and  wrapped 
myself  In  my  blanket.  From  my  position  I  could  see 
the  string  of  boxes  containing  the  riffles.  Over  me 
brooded  the  vast  silence  of  the  night.  By  my  side 
lay  a  loaded  shot-gun. 

"  If  the  swine  comes,"  said  Ribwood,  "  let  him 
have  a  clean-up  of  lead  Instead  of  gold." 

Lying  there,  I  got  to  thinking  of  the  robberies. 
They  were  remarkable.  All  had  been  done  by  an 
expert.  In  some  cases  the  riffles  had  been  extracted 
and  the  gold  scooped  out;  In  others  a  quantity  of  mer- 
cury had  been  poured  in  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
boxes,  and,  as  it  passed  down,  the  "  quick  "  had  gath- 
ered up  the  dust.  Each  time  the  robbers  had  cleaned 
up  from  two  to  three  thousand  dollars,  and  all  within 
the  past  month.  There  was  some  mysterious  master- 
crook  in  our  midst,  one  who  operated  swiftly  and 
surely,  and  left  absolutely  no  clue  of  his  Identity. 

It  was  strange,  I  thought.  What  nerve,  what 
cunning,  what  skill  must  this  midnight  thief  be  pos- 
sessed of!  What  desperate  chances  was  he  taking! 
For,  in  the  miners'  eyes,  cache-stealing  and  sluice-box 
robbing  were  In  the  same  category,  and  the  punish- 
ment was — well,  a  rope  and  the  nearest  tree  of  size. 
Among  those  strong,  grim  men  justice  would  be  stern 
and  swift. 

I  was  very  quiet  for  a  while,  watching  dreamily  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  dusk. 


ISO  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Hist!  What  was  that?  Surely  the  bushes  were 
moving  over  there  by  the  hillside.  I  strained  my 
eyes.      I   was   right:   they  were. 

I  was  all  nerves  and  excitement  now,  my  heart  beat- 
ing wildly,  my  eyes  boring  through  the  gloom.  Very 
softly  I  put  out  my  hand  and  grasped  the  shot-gun. 

I  watched  and  waited.  A  man  was  parting  the 
bushes.  Stealthily,  very  stealthily,  he  peered  around. 
He  hesitated,  paused,  peered  again,  crouched  on  all- 
fours,  crept  forward  a  little.  Everything  was  quiet 
as  a  grave.  Down  in  the  cabins  the  tired  men  slept 
peacefully;  stillness  and  solitude. 

Cautiously  the  man,  crawling  like  a  snake,  worked 
his  way  to  the  sluice-boxes.  None  but  a  keen  watcher 
could  have  seen  him.  Again  and  again  he  paused, 
peered  around,  listened  intently.  Very  carefully, 
with  my  eyes  fixed  on  him,  I  lifted  the  gun. 

Now  he  had  gained  the  shadow  of  the  nearest 
sluice-box.  He  clung  to  the  trestle-work,  clung  so 
closely  you  could  scarce  tell  him  apart  from  It.  He 
was  like  a  rat,  dark,  furtive,  sinister.  Slowly  I  lifted 
the  gun  to  my  shoulder.      I  had  him  covered. 

I  waited.  Somehow  I  was  loath  to  shoot.  My 
nerves  were  a-qulver.  Proof,  more  proof,  I  said.  I 
saw  him  working  busily,  lying  flat  alongside  the  boxes. 
How  crafty,  how  skilful  he  was !  He  was  discon- 
necting the  boxes.  He  would  let  the  water  run  to  the 
ground;  then,  there  In  the  exposed  riffles,  would  be  his 
harvest.    Would  I  shoot  .   .   .  now  .   .   .  now.   .   .  . 

Then,  In  the  midnight  hush,  my  gun  blazed  forth. 
With  one  scream  the  man  tumbled  down,  carrying 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  251 

along  with  him  the  disconnected  box.  The  water 
rushed  over  the  ground  in  a  deluge.  I  must  capture 
him.  There  he  lay  in  that  pouring  stream.  .  .  . 
Now  I  had  him. 

In  that  torrent  of  icy  water  I  grappled  with  my 
man.  Over  and  over  we  rolled.  He  tried  to  gouge 
me.  He  was  small,  but  oh,  how  strong !  He  held 
down  his  face.  Fiercely  I  wrenched  it  up  to  the  light. 
Heavens  !  it  was  the  Worm. 

I  gave  a  cry  of  surprise,  and  my  clutch  on  him 
must  have  weakened,  for  at  that  moment  he  gave  a 
violent  wrench,  a  cat-like  twist,  and  tore  himself  free. 
Men  were  coming,  were  shouting,  were  running  in 
from  all  directions. 

"Catch  him!  "  I  cried.     "Yonder  he  goes." 

But  the  little  man  was  shooting  forward  like  a 
deer.  He  was  in  the  bushes  now,  bursting  through 
everything,  dodging  and  twisting  up  the  hill.  Right 
and  left  ran  his  pursuers,  mistaking  each  other  for 
the  robber  in  the  semi-gloom,  yelling  frantically,  mad 
with  the  excitement  of  a  man-hunt.  And  in  the  midst 
of  it  all  I  lay  in  a  pool  of  mud  and  water,  with  a 
sprained  wrist  and  a  bite  on  my  leg. 

"  Why  didn't  you  hold  him?  "  shouted  Ribwood. 

"  I  couldn't,"  I  answered.  "  I  saved  your  clean- 
up, and  he  got  some  of  the  lead.  Besides,  I  know 
who  he  is." 

"You  don't!     Who  is  he?" 

"  Pat  Doogan.'' 

"You  don't  say.  Well,  I'm  darned.  You're 
sure?  " 


252  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Dead  sure." 

"Swear  it  in  Court?  " 

"  I  will." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right.  We'll  get  him.  I'll  go 
into  town  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  get  out  a 
warrant  for  him." 

He  went,  but  the  next  evening  back  he  returned, 
looking  very  surly  and  disgruntled. 

"  Well,  what  about  the  warrant?  "  said  Hoof  man. 

"  Didn't  get  it." 

"  Didn't  get " 

"  No,  didn't  get  it,"  snapped  Ribwood.  "  Look 
here,  Hoofman,  I  met  Locasto.  Black  Jack  says  Pat 
was  cached  away,  dead  to  all  the  world,  in  the  back- 
room of  the  Omega  Saloon  all  night.  There's  two 
loafers  and  the  barkeeper  to  back  him  up.  What  can 
we  do  in  the  face  of  that?  Say,  young  feller,  I  guess 
you  mistook  your  man." 

"  I  guess  I  did  not,"  I  protested  stoutly. 

They  both  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  and 
shrugged  their  shoulders. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Time  went  on  and  the  cabin  was  quietly  nearing 
completion.  The  roof  of  poles  was  in  place.  It 
only  remained  to  cover  it  with  moss  and  thawed-out 
earth  to  make  it  our  future  home.  I  think  these  were 
the  happiest  days  I  spent  in  the  North,  We  were 
such  a  united  trio.  Each  was  eager  to  do  more  than 
the  other,  and  we  vied  in  little  acts  of  mutual  consid- 
eration. 

Once  again  I  congratulated  myself  on  my  partners. 
Jim,  though  sometimes  bellicosely  evangelical,  was  the 
soul  of  kindly  goodness,  cheerfulness  and  patience. 
It  was  refreshing  to  know  among  so  many  sin-cal- 
loused men  one  who  always  rang  true,  true  as  the  gold 
in  the  pan.  As  for  the  Prodigal,  he  was  a  Prince,  I 
often  thought  that  God  at  the  birth  of  him  must  have 
reached  out  to  the  sunshine  and  crammed  a  mighty 
handful  of  it  into  the  boy.  Surely  it  is  better  than 
all  the  riches  in  the  world  to  have  a  temperament  of 
eternal  cheer. 

As  for  me,  I  have  ever  been  at  the  mercy  of  my 
moods,  easily  elated,  quickly  cast  down.  I  have  al- 
ways be^n  abnormally  sensitive,  affected  by  sunshine 
and  by  shadows,  vacillating,  intense  in  my  feelings. 
I  was  truly  happy  in  those  days,  finding  time  in  the 
long  evenings  to  think  of  the  scenes  of  stress  and  sor- 
row I  had  witnessed,  reconstructing  the  past,  and  hav- 

253 


254  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

ing  importune  me  again  and  again  the  many  char- 
acters in  my  life  drama. 

Always  and  always  I  saw  the  Girl,  elusively  sweet, 
almost  unreal,  a  thing  to  enshrine  in  that  ideal  alcove 
of  our  hearts  we  keep  for  our  saints.  (And  God  help 
us  always  to  keep  shining  there  a  great  Hght.) 

Many  others  importuned  me :  Pinklove,  Globstock, 
Pondersby,  Marks,  old  Wilovich,  all  dead;  Bullham- 
mer,  the  Jam-wagon,  Mosher,  the  Winklesteins, 
plunged  in  the  vortex  of  the  gold-born  city;  and  lastly, 
looming  over  all,  dark  and  ominous,  the  handsome, 
bold,  sinister  face  of  Locasto.  Well,  maybe  I  would 
never  see  any  of  them  again. 

Yet  more  and  more  my  dream  hours  were  jeal- 
ously consecrated  to  Berna.  How  ineffably  sweet 
were  they!  How  full  of  delicious  imaginings!  How 
pregnant  of  high  hope !  O,  I  was  born  to  love,  I 
think,  and  I  never  loved  but  one.  This  story  of  my 
life  is  the  story  of  Berna.  It  is  a  thing  of  words 
and  words  and  words,  yet  every  word  is  Berna, 
Berna.  Feel  the  heartache  behind  it  all.  Read  be- 
tween the  lines,  Berna,  Berna. 

Often  in  the  evenings  we  went  to  the  Forks,  which 
was  a  lively  place  indeed.  Here  was  all  the  reck- 
lessness and  revel  of  Dawson  on  a  smaller  scale,  and 
infinitely  more  gross.  Here  were  the  dance-hall  girls, 
not  the  dazzling  creatures  in  diamonds  and  Paris 
gowns,  the  belles  of  the  Monte  Carlo  and  the  Tivoli, 
but  drabs  self-convicted  by  their  coarse,  puffy  faces. 
Here  the  men,  fresh  from  their  day's  work,  the  mud 
of  the  claim  hardly  dry  on  their  boot-tops,  were  buy- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  255: 

ing  wine  with  nuggets  they  had  filched  from  sluice- 
box,  dump  and  drift. 

There  was  wholesale  robbery  going  on  in  the  gold- 
camp.  On  many  claims  where  the  owners  were 
known  to  be  unsuspicious,  men  would  work  for  small 
wages  because  of  the  gold  they  were  able  to  filch.  On 
the  other  hand,  many  of  the  operators  were  paying 
their  men  in  trade-dust  valued  at  sixteen  dollars  an 
ounce,  yet  so  adulterated  with  black  sand  as  to  be 
really  worth  about  fourteen.  All  these  things  con- 
tributed to  the  low  morale  of  the  camp.  Easy  come, 
easy  go  with  money,  a  wild  intoxication  of  success  in 
the  air;  gold  gouged  in  glittering  heaps  from  the 
ground  during  the  day,  and  at  night  squandered  in  a 
carnival  of  lust  and  sin. 

The  Prodigal  was  always  *'  snooping  "  around  and 
gleaning  information  from  most  mysterious  sources. 
One  evening  he  came  to  us. 

"  Boys,  get  ready,  quick.  There's  a  rumour  of  a 
stampede  for  a  new  creek,  Ophir  Creek  they  call  it, 
away  on  the  other  side  of  the  divide  somewhere.  A 
prospector  went  down  ten  feet  and  got  fifty-cent  dirt. 
We've  got  to  get  in  on  this.  There's  a  mob  coming 
from  Dawson,  but  we'll  get  there  before  the  rush." 

Quickly  we  got  together  blankets  and  a  little  grub, 
and,  keeping  out  of  sight,  we  crawled  up  the  hill  un- 
der cover  of  the  brush.  Soon  we  came  to  a  place 
from  which  we  could  command  a  full  view  of  the 
valley.     Here  we  lay  down,  awaiting  developments. 

It  was  at  the  hour  of  dusk.  Scarfs  of  smoke 
wavered  over  the  cabins  down  in  the  valley.     On  the 


256  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

far  slope  of  Eldorado  I  saw  a  hawk  soar  upwards. 
Surely  a  man  was  moving  amid  the  brush,  two  men,  a 
dozen  men,  moving  in  single  file  very  stealthily.  I 
pointed  them  out. 

"  It's  the  stampede,"  whispered  Jim.  "  We've  got 
to  get  on  to  the  trail  of  that  crowd.  Travel  like 
blazes.  We  can  cut  them  off  at  the  head  of  the 
valley." 

So  we  struck  into  the  stampede  gait,  a  wfld,  jolting, 
desperate  pace,  that  made  the  wind  pant  in  our  lungs 
like  bellows,  and  jarred  our  bones  in  their  sockets. 
Through  brush  and  scrub  timber  we  burst.  Thorny 
vines  tore  at  us  detainingly,  swampy  niggerheads  im- 
peded us ;  but  the  excitement  of  the  stampede  was  in 
our  blood,  and  we  plunged  down  gulches,  floundered 
over  marshes,  climbed  steep  ridges  and  crashed 
through  dense  masses  of  underwood. 

"  Throw  away  your  blankets,  boys,"  said  the  Prod- 
igal. "Just  keep  a  little  grub.  Eldorado  was 
staked  on  a  stampede.  Maybe  we're  in  on  another 
Eldorado.  We  must  connect  with  that  bunch  if  we 
break  our  necks." 

It  was  hours  after  when  we  overtook  them,  about 
a  dozen  men,  all  in  the  maddest  hurry,  and  casting  be- 
hind them  glances  of  furtive  apprehension.  When 
they  saw  us  they  were  hugely  surprised.  Ribwood 
was  one  of  the  party. 

"  Hello,"  he  says  roughly;  "  any  more  coming  after 
you  boys?  " 

"  Don't  see  them,"  said  the  Prodigal  breathlessly. 
"  We  spied  you  and  cottoned  on  to  what  was  up,  so 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  257 

we  made  a  fierce  hike  to  get  in  on  it.  Gee,  I'm  all 
tuckered  out." 

"  All  right,  get  in  line.  I  guess  there's  lots  for 
us  all.  You're  in  on  a  good  thing,  all  right.  Come 
along." 

So  off  we  started  again.  The  leader  was  going  like 
one  possessed.  We  blundered  on  behind.  We  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  divide  looking  into  another 
vast  valley.  What  a  magnificent  country  it  was ! 
What  a  great  manoeuvring-ground  it  would  make  for 
an  army!  What  splendid  open  spaces,  and  round 
smooth  hills,  and  dimly  blue  valleys,  and  silver}^  wind- 
ing creeks!  It  was  veritably  a  park  of  the  Gods, 
and  enclosing  it  was  the  monstrous,  corrugated  pal- 
isade of  the  Rockies. 

But  there  was  small  time  to  look  around.  On  we 
went  in  the  same  mad,  heart-breaking  hurry,  mile 
after  mile,  hour  after  hour. 

"  This  is  going  to  be  a  banner  creek,  boys,"  the 
whisper  ran  down  the  line.  "  We're  in  luck.  We'll 
all  be  Klondike  Kings  yet." 

Cheering,  wasn't  it?  So  on  we  went,  hotter  than 
ever,  content  to  follow  the  man  of  iron  who  was  guid- 
ing us  to  the  virgin  treasure. 

We  had  been  pounding  along  all  night,  up  hill  and 
down  dale.  The  sun  rose,  the  dawn  blossomed,  the 
dew  dried  on  the  blueberry;  it  was  morning.  Still 
we  kept  up  our  fierce  gait.  Would  our  leader  never 
come  to  his  destination?  By  what  roundabout  route 
was  he  guiding  us?  The  sun  climbed  up  in  the  blue 
sky,  the  heat  quivered;  it  was  noon.     We  panted  as 


258  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

we  pelted  on,  parched  and  weary,  faint  and  footsore. 
The  excitement  of  the  stampede  had  sustained  us,  and 
we  scarcely  had  noted  the  flight  of  time.  We  had 
been  walking  for  fourteen  hours,  yet  not  a  man 
faltered.  I  was  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue;  my  feet 
were  a  mass  of  blisters,  and  every  step  was  intolerable 
pain  to  me.     But  still  our  leader  kept  on. 

"  I  guess  we'll  fool  those  trying  to  follow  us," 
snapped  Ribwood  grimly. 

Suddenly  the  Prodigal  said  to  me:  "  Say,  you  boys 
will  have  to  go  on  without  me.  I'm  all  in.  Go 
ahead,  I'll  follow  after  I'm  rested  up." 

He  dropped  in  a  limp  heap  on  the  ground  and  In- 
stantly fell  asleep.  Several  of  the  others  had  dropped 
out  too.  They  fell  asleep  where  they  gave  up,  ut- 
terly exhausted.  We  had  now  been  going  sixteen 
hours,  and  still  our  leader  kept  on. 

"  You're  pretty  tough  for  a  youngster,"  growled 
one  of  them  to  me.  "  Keep  it  up,  we're  almost 
there." 

So  I  hobbled  along  painfully,  though  the  desire  to 
throw  myself  down  was  becoming  imperative.  Just 
ahead  was  Jim,  sturdily  holding  his  own.  The  others 
were  reduced  to  a  bare  half-dozen. 

It  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon  when  we  reached 
the  creek.  Up  it  our  leader  plunged,  till  he  came 
to  a  place  where  a  rude  shaft  had  been  dug.  We 
gathered  around  him.  He  was  a  typical  prospector, 
a  child  of  hope,  lean,  swarthy,  clear-eyed. 

"  Here  It  Is,  boys,"  he  said.  "  Here's  my  discov- 
ery stake.     Now  you  fellows  go  up  or  down,  any- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  259 

where  you've  a  notion  to,  and  put  in  your  stakes. 
You  all  know  what  a  lottery  it  is.  Maybe  you'll  stake 
a  million-dollar  claim,  maybe  a  blank.  Mining's  all 
a  gamble.     But  go  ahead,  boys.     I  wish  you  luck." 

So  we  strung  out,  and,  coming  in  rotation,  Jim  and 
I  staked  seven  and  eight  below  discovery. 

"  Seven's  a  lucky  number  for  me,"  said  Jim;  "  I've 
a  notion  this  claim's  a  good  one." 

"  I  don't  care,"  I  said,  "  for  all  the  gold  in  the 
world.     What  I  want  Is  sleep,  sleep,  rest  and  sleep." 

So  I  threw  myself  down  on  a  bit  of  moss,  and,  cov- 
ering my  head  with  my  coat  to  ward  off  the  mos- 
quitoes, in  a  few  minutes  I  was  dead  to  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  WAS  awakened  by  the  Prodigal. 

"  Rouse  up,"  he  was  saying;  "  you've  slept  right 
round  the  clock.  We've  got  to  get  back  to  town  and 
record  those  claims.     Jim's  gone  three  hours  ago." 

It  was  five  o'clock  of  a  crystal  Yukon  morning, 
with  the  world  clear-cut  and  fresh  as  at  the  dawn  of 
Things.  I  was  sleep-stupid,  sore,  stiff  in  every  joint. 
Racking  pains  made  me  groan  at  every  movement, 
and  the  chill  night  air  had  brought  on  twinges  of 
rheumatism.  I  looked  at  my  location  stake,  beside 
which  I  had  fallen. 

"I  can't  do  It,"  I  said;  "my  feet  are  out  of  busi- 
ness." 

"  You  must,"  he  insisted.  *'  Come,  buck  up,  old 
man.  Bathe  your  feet  in  the  creek,  and  then  you'll 
feel  as  fit  as  a  fighting-cock.  We've  got  to  get  into 
town  hot-foot.  They've  got  a  bunch  of  crooks  at  the 
gold  oflSce,  and  we're  liable  to  lose  our  claims  if  we  are 
late." 

"  Have  you  staked,  too?  " 

"  You  bet.  I've  got  thirteen  below.  Hurry  up. 
There's  a  wild  bunch  coming  from  town." 

I  groaned  grievously,  yet  felt  mighty  refreshed 
by  a  dip  in  the  creek.  Then  we  started  off  once 
more.  Every  few  moments  we  would  meet  parties 
coming  post-haste  from  town.     They  looked  worn 

260 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  261 

and  jaded,  but  spread  eagerly  up  and  down.  There 
must  have  been  several  hundred  of  them,  all  sustained 
by  the  mad  excitement  of  the  stampede. 

We  did  not  take  the  circuitous  route  of  the  day  be- 
fore, but  one  that  shortened  the  distance  by  some  ten 
miles.  We  travelled  a  wild  country,  crossing  un- 
known creeks  that  have  since  proved  gold-bearing, 
and  climbing  again  the  high  ridge  of  the  divide. 
Then  once  more  we  dropped  down  into  the  Bonanza 
basin,  and  by  nightfall  we  had  reached  our  own 
cabin. 

We  lay  down  for  a  few  hours.  It  seemed  my 
weary  head  had  just  touched  the  pillow  when  once 
more  the  inexorable  Prodigal  awakened  me. 

"  Come  on,  kid,  we've  got  to  get  to  Dawson  when 
the  recording  office  opens."  So  once  more  we  pelted 
down  Bonanza.  Fast  as  we  had  come,  we  found 
many  of  those  who  had  followed  us  were  ahead.  The 
North  is  the  land  of  the  musher.  In  that  pure, 
buoyant  air  a  man  can  walk  away  from  himself.  Any 
one  of  us  thought  nothing  of  a  fifty-mile  tramp,  and 
one  of  eighty  was  scarcely  considered  notable. 

It  was  about  nine  in  the  morning  when  we  got  to 
the  gold  office.  Already  a  crowd  of  stampeders  were 
waiting.  Foremost  in  the  crowd  I  saw  Jim.  The 
Prodigal  looked  thoughtful. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  it's  all  right  to 
push  in  with  that  bunch,  but  there's  a  slicker  way  of 
doing  it  for  those  that  are  '  next.'  Of  course,  it's 
not  according  to  Hoyle.  There's  a  little  side-door 
where  you  can  get  in  ahead  of  the  gang.     See  that 


262  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

fellow,  Ten-Dollar  Jim  they  call  him;  well,  they  say 
he  can  work  the  oracle  for  us." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  you  can  pay  him  ten  dollars  if  you 
like.      I'll  take  my  chance  in  the  regulation  way." 

So  the  Prodigal  slipped  away  from  me,  and  pres- 
ently I  saw  him  admitted  at  the  side  entrance.  Surely, 
thought  I,  there  must  be  some  mistake.  The  public 
would  not  "  stand  for  "  such  things. 

There  was  quite  a  number  ahead  of  me,  and  I  knew 
I  was  in  for  a  long  wait.  I  will  never  forget  it.  For 
three  days,  with  the  exception  of  two  brief  sleep-spells, 
I  had  been  in  a  fierce  helter-skelter  of  excitement,  and 
I  had  eaten  no  very  satisfying  food.  As  I  stood  in  that 
sullen  crowd  I  swayed  with  weariness,  and  my  legs 
were  doubling  under  me.  Invisible  hands  were  drag- 
ging me  down,  throwing  dust  in  my  eyes,  hypnotising 
me  with  soporific  gestures.  I  staggered  forward  and 
straightened  up  suddenly.  On  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd  I  saw  the  Prodigal  trying  to  locate  me.  When 
he  saw  me  he  waved  a  paper. 

"  Come  on,  you  goat,"  he  shouted;  "  have  a  little 
sense.     I'm  all  fixed  up." 

I  shook  my  head.  An  odd  sense  of  fair  play  in  me 
made  me  want  to  win  the  game  squarely.  I  would 
wait  my  turn.  Noon  came.  I  saw  Jim  coming  out, 
tired  but  triumphant. 

"  All  right,"  he  megaphoned  to  me;  "  I'm  through. 
Now  I'll  go  and  sleep  my  head  ofi[." 

How  I  envied  him.  I  felt  I,  too,  had  a  "  big 
bunch  "  of  sleep  coming  to  me.  I  was  moving  for- 
ward slowly.     Bit  by  bit  I  was  wedging  nearer  the 


THE   TRAIL  OF   '98  263 

door.  I  watched  man  after  man  push  past  the  cov- 
eted threshold.  They  were  all  miners,  brawny,  stiib- 
ble-chinned  fellows  with  grim,  determined  faces.  I 
was  certainly  the  youngest  there. 

"  What  have  you  got?  "  asked  a  thick-set  man  on 
my  right. 

"  Eight  below,"  I  answered. 

"  Gee  !  you're  lucky." 

"  What'll  you  take  for  it?"  asked  a  tall,  keen- 
looking  fellow  on  my  left. 

"  Five  thousand." 

"  Give  you  two." 

•'No." 

"Well,  come  round  and  see  me  to-morrow  at  the 
Dominion,  and  we'll  talk  it  over.  My  name's  Gun- 
son.     Bring  your  papers." 

"All  right." 

Something  like  dizziness  seized  me.  Five  thou- 
sand !  The  crowd  seemed  to  be  composed  of  angels 
and  the  sunshine  to  have  a  new  and  brilliant  quality 
of  light  and  warmth.  Five  thousand !  Would  I 
take  it?  If  the  claim  was  worth  a  cent  it  ought  to 
be  worth  fifty  thousand.  I  soared  on  rosy  wings  of 
optimism.  I  revelled  in  dreams.  My  claim  !  Mine  ! 
Eight  below!  Other  men  had  bounded  into  affluence. 
Why  not  I  ? 

No  longer  did  I  notice  the  flight  of  time.  I  was 
ready  to  wait  till  doomsday.  A  new  lease  of  strength 
came  to  me.  I  was  near  the  wicket  now.  Only  two 
were  ahead  of  me.  A  clerk  was  recording  their 
claims.     One  had  thirty-four  above,  the  other  fifty- 


264  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

two  below.  The  clerk  looked  flustered,  fatigued. 
His  dull  eyes  were  pursy  with  midnight  debauches; 
his  flesh  sagged.  In  contrast  with  the  clean,  hard, 
hawk-eyed  miners,  he  looked  blotched  and  unwhole- 
some. 

Crossly  he  snatched  from  the  other  two  their 
miner's  certificates,  made  the  entries  in  his  book,  and 
gave  them  their  receipts.  It  was  my  turn  now.  I 
dashed  forward  eagerly.  Then  I  stopped,  for  the 
man  with  the  bleary  eyes  had  shut  the  wicket  in  my 
face. 

"  Three  o'clock,"  he  snapped. 

"  Couldn't  you  take  mine?  "  I  faltered;  "  I've  been 
waiting  now  these  seven  hours." 

"  Closing  time,"  he  ripped  out  still  more  tartly; 
"  come  again  to-morrow." 

There  was  a  growling  thunder  from  the  crowd  be- 
hind, and  the  weary,  disappointed  stampeders 
slouched  away. 

Body  and  soul  of  me  craved  for  sleep.  Beyond  an 
overwhelming  desire  for  rest,  I  was  conscious  of 
nothing  else.  My  eyelids  were  weighted  with  lead. 
I  lagged  along  dejectedly.  At  the  hotel  I  saw  the 
Prodigal. 

"Get  fixed  up?" 

"  No,  too  late." 

"  You'd  better  take  advantage  of  the  general  cor- 
ruption and  the  services  of  Ten-Dollar  Jim." 

I  was  disheartened,  disgusted,  desperate. 

"  I  will,"  I  said.  Then,  throwing  myself  on  the 
bed,  I  launched  on  a  dreamless  sea  of  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Next  morning  bright  and  early  found  me  at  the  side- 
door,  and  the  tall  man  admitted  me.  I  slipped  a 
ten-dollar  gold  piece  into  his  palm,  and  presently 
found  myself  waiting  at  the  yet  unopened  wicket. 
Outside  I  could  see  the  big  crowd  gathering  for  their 
weary  wait.  I  felt  a  sneaking  sense  of  meanness, 
but  I  did  not  have  long  to  enjoy  my  despicable  sensa- 
tions. 

The  recording  clerk  came  to  the  wicket.  He  was 
very  red-faced  and  watery-eyed.  Involuntarily  I 
turned  my  head  away  at  the  reek  of  his  breath. 

"  I  want  to  record  eight  below  on  Ophir,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  curiously.     He  hesitated. 

*' What  name?  "  he  asked. 

I  gave  it.     He  turned  up  his  book. 

"  Eight  below,  you  say.  Why,  that's  already  re- 
corded." 

"  Can't  be,"  I  retorted.  "  I  just  got  down  from 
there  yesterday  after  planting  my  stakes." 

"  Can't  help  it.  It's  recorded  by  some  one  else, 
recorded  early  yesterday." 

"Look  here,"  I  exclaimed;  "what  kind  of  a 
game  are  you  putting  up  on  me?  I  tell  you  I  was 
the  first  on  the  ground.      I  alone  staked  the  claim." 

"  That's  strange,"  he  said.  "  There  must  be  some 
mistake.     Anyway,  you'll  have  to  move  on  and  let  the 

265 


266  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

others  get  up  to  the  wicket.  You're  blocking  the  way. 
All  I  can  do  is  to  look  into  the  matter  for  you,  and 
I've  got  no  time  now.  Come  back  to-morrow. 
Next,  please." 

The  next  man  pushed  me  aside,  and  there  I  stood, 
gaping  and  gasping.  A  man  in  the  waiting  line 
looked  at  me  pityingly. 

"  It's  no  use,  young  fellow;  you'd  better  make  up 
your  mind  to  lose  that  claim.  They'll  flim-flam  you 
out  of  it  somehow.  They've  sent  some  one  out  now 
to  stake  over  you.  If  you  kick,  they'll  say  you  didn't 
stake  proper." 

"  But  I  have  witnesses." 

"  It  don't  matter  if  you  call  the  Angel  Gabriel  to 
witness,  they're  going  to  grab  your  claim.  Them 
government  officials  is  the  crookedest  bunch  that  ever 
made  fuel  for  hell-fire.  You  won't  get  a  square  deal; 
they're  going  to  get  the  fat  anyhow.  They've  got  the 
best  claims  spotted,  an'  men  posted  to  jump  them  at 
the  first  chance.  Oh,  they're  feathering  their  nests  all 
right.  They're  like  a  lot  of  greedy  pike  just  waiting 
to  gobble  down  all  they  can.  A  man  can't  buy  wine 
at  twenty  dollars  per,  and  make  dance-hall  Flossies 
presents  of  diamond  tararas  on  a  government  salary. 
That's  what  a  lot  of  them  are  doing.  Wine  and 
women,  and  their  wives  an'  daughters  outside  thinkin' 
they're  little  tin  gods.  Somehow  they've  got  to  foot 
the  bill.     Oh,  it's  a  great  country." 

I  was  stunned  with  disappointment. 

"What  you  want,"  he  continued,  "  is  to  get  a  pull 
with  some  of  the  officials.     Why,  there's  friends  of 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  267 

mine  don't  need  to  go  out  of  town  to  stake  a  claim. 
Only  the  other  day  a  certain  party  known  to  me, 
went  to — well,  I  mustn't  mention  names,  anyway,  he's 
high  up  in  the  government,  and  a  friend  of  Quebec 
Suzanne's, — and  says  to  him, '  I  want  you  to  get  num- 
ber so  and  so  on  Hunker  recorded  for  me.     Of  course 

I  haven't  been  able  to  get  out  there,  but ' 

"  The  government  bug  puts  his  hands  to  his  ears, 

*  Don't  give  me  any  unnecessary  information,'  he  says; 

*  you  want  so  and  so  recorded,  Sam.  Well,  that's 
all  right.     I'll  fix  it.' 

"  That  was  all  there  was  to  it,  and  when  next 
day  a  man  comes  in  post-haste  claiming  to  have 
staked  it,  it  was  there  recorded  in  Sam's  name.  Get 
a  stand-in,  young  fellow." 

*'  But  surely,"  I  said,  "  somehow,  somewhere  there 
must  be  justice.  Surely  if  these  facts  were  repre- 
sented at  Ottawa  and  proof  forthcoming " 

"  Ottawa  !  "  He  gave  a  sniffing  laugh.  "  Ottawa  ! 
Why,  it's  some  of  the  big  guns  at  Ottawa  that's  gettin' 
the  cream  of  it  all.  The  little  fellows  are  just  lap- 
ping up  the  drips.  Look  at  them  big  concessions 
they're  selling  for  a  song,  good  placer  ground  that 
would  mean  pie  to  the  poor  miner,  closed  tight  and 
everlastingly  tied  up.  How  is  It  done?  Why, 
there's  some  politician  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
business.  Look  at  the  liquor  permits — crude  alcohol 
sent  into  the  country  by  the  thousand  gallons,  diluted 
to  six  times  its  bulk,  and  sold  to  the  poor  prospector 
for  whisky  at  a  dollar  a  drink.  An'  you  can't  pour 
your  own  drinks  at  that." 


268  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I'm  not  going  to  be  cheated  out 
of  my  claim.  If  I've  got  to  move  Heaven  and 
earth " 

"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  If  you  get  sassy 
there's  the  police  to  put  the  lid  on  you.  You  can  talk 
till  you're  purple  round  the  gills.  It  won't  cut  no 
figure.  They've  got  us  all  cinched.  We've  just  got 
to  take  our  medicine.  It's  no  use  goin'  round  belly- 
aching.    You'd  better  go  away  and  sit  down." 

And  I  did. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

I  HAD  to  see  Berna  at  once.  Already  I  had  paid  a 
visit  to  the  Paragon  Restaurant,  that  new  and  glitter- 
ing place  of  resort  run  by  the  Winklesteins,  but  she 
was  not  on  duty.  I  saw  Madam,  resplendent  in  her 
false  jewellery,  with  her  beetle-black  hair  elaborately 
coiffured,  and  her  large,  bold  face  handsomely  enam- 
elled. She  looked  the  picture  of  fleshy  prosperity,  a 
big  handsome  Jewess,  hawk-eyed  and  rapacious.  In 
the  background  hovered  Winklestein,  his  little, 
squeezed-up,  tallowy  face  beaded  with  perspiration. 
But  he  was  dressed  quite  superbly,  and  his  moustache 
was  more  wondrously  waxed  than  ever. 

I  mingled  with  the  crowd  of  miners,  and  in  my 
rough  garb,  swarthy  and  bearded  as  I  was,  the  Jewish 
couple  did  not  know  me.  As  I  paid  her.  Madam 
gave  me  a  sharp  glance.  But  there  was  no  recog- 
nisant  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

In  the  evening  I  returned.  I  took  a  seat  in  one 
of  the  curtained  boxes.  At  the  long  lunch-counter 
rough-necked  fellows  perched  on  tripod  stools  were 
guzzling  food.  The  place  was  brilliantly  lit  up, 
many-mirrored  and  flashily  ornate  in  gilt  and  white. 
The  bill  of  fare  was  elaborate,  the  prices  exalted.  In 
the  box  before  me  a  white-haired  lawyer  was  enter- 
taining a  lady  of  easy  virtue;  in  the  box  behind,  a  lar- 
rikin quartette  from  the  Pavilion  Theatre  were  hold- 

269 


270  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

ing  high  revelry.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  char- 
acter of  the  place.  In  the  heart  of  the  city's  tender- 
loin it  was  a  haunt  of  human  riff-raff,  a  palace  of  gilt 
and  guilt,  a  first  scene  in  the  nightly  comedy  of  "  The 
Lobster." 

I  was  feeling  profoundly  depressed,  miserable,  dis- 
gusted with  everything.  For  the  first  time  I  began 
to  regret  ever  leaving  home.  Out  on  the  creeks  I 
was  happy.  Here  in  the  town  the  glaring  corruption 
of  things  jarred  on  my  nerves. 

And  it  was  in  this  place  Berna  worked.  She  waited 
on  these  wantons;  she  served  those  swine.  She  heard 
their  loose  talk,  their  careless  oaths.  She  saw  them 
foully  drunk,  staggering  off  to  their  shameful  as- 
signations. She  knew  everything.  O,  it  was  piti- 
ful; it  sickened  me  to  the  soul.  I  sat  down  and 
buried  my  face  in  my  hands. 

"Order,  please." 

I  knew  that  sweet  voice.  It  thrilled  me,  and  I 
looked  up  suddenly.  There  was  Berna  standing  be- 
fore me. 

She  gave  a  quick  start,  then  recovered  herself.  A 
look  of  delight  came  into  her  eyes,  eager,  vivid  de- 
light. 

"  My,  how  you  frightened  me,  I  wasn't  expecting 
you.     Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again." 

I  looked  at  her.  I  was  conscious  of  a  change  in 
her,  and  the  consciousness  came  with  a  sense  of  shear- 
ing pain. 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  what  are  you  doing  with  that 
paint  on  your  face?  " 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  271 

*'  Oh,  I'm  sorry."  She  was  rubbing  distressfully 
at  a  dab  of  rouge  on  her  cheek.  "  I  knew  you  would 
be  cross,  but  I  had  to;  they  made  me.  They  said  I 
looked  like  a  spectre  at  the  feast  with  my  chalk  face; 
I  frightened  away  the  customers.  It's  just  a  little 
pink,— all  the  women  do  it.  It  makes  me  look  hap- 
pier, and  it  doesn't  hurt  me  any." 

"  What  I  want  is  to  see  in  your  cheeks,  dear,  the 
glow  of  health,  not  the  flush  of  a  cosmetic.  How- 
ever, never  mind.     How  are  you?  " 

"  Pretty  well "  hesitatingly. 

"  Berna,"  boomed  the  rough,  contumacious  voice 
of  Madam,  "  attend  to  the  customers." 

"All  right,"  I  said;  "get  me  anything.  I  just 
wanted  to  see  you." 

She  hurried  away.  I  saw  her  go  behind  the  cur- 
tains of  one  of  the  closed  boxes  carrying  a  tray  of 
dishes.  I  heard  coarse  voices  chaffing  her.  I  saw 
her  come  out,  her  cheeks  flushed,  yet  not  with  rouge. 
A  miner  had  tried  to  detain  her.  Somehow  it  all 
made  me  writhe,  agitated  me  so  that  I  could  hardly 
keep  my  seat. 

Presently  she  came  hurrying  round,  bringing  me 
some  food. 

"When  can  I  see  you,  girl?"  I  asked. 

"  To-night.      See  me  home.      I'm  off  at  midnight." 

"  All  right.     I'll  be  waiting." 

She  was  kept  very  busy,  and,  though  once  or  twice 
a  tipsy  roysterer  ventured  on  some  rough  pleasantry, 
I  noticed  with  returning  satisfaction  that  most  of  the 
big,  bearded  miners  treated  her  with  chivalrous  re- 


272  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

spect.  She  was  quite  friendly  with  them.  They 
called  her  by  name,  and  seemed  to  have  a  genuine  af- 
fection for  her.  There  was  a  protective  manliness 
In  the  manner  of  these  men  that  reassured  me.  So  I 
swallowed  my  meal  and  left  the  place. 

"  That's  a  good  little  girl,"  said  a  grizzled  old  fel- 
low to  me,  as  he  stood  picking  his  teeth  energetically 
outside  the  restaurant.  "  Straight  as  a  string,  and 
there  ain't  many  up  here  you  can  say  that  of.  If  any 
one  was  to  try  any  monkey  business  with  that  little 
girl,  sir,  there's  a  dozen  of  the  boys  would  make  him 
a  first-rate  case  for  the  hospital  ward.  Yes,  siree, 
that's  a  jim-dandy  little  girl.  I  just  wish  she  was  my 
darter." 

In  my  heart  I  blessed  him  for  his  words,  and 
pressed  on  him  a  fifty-cent  cigar. 

Again  I  wandered  up  and  down  the  now  familiar 
street,  but  the  keen  edge  of  my  impression  had  been 
blunted.  I  no  longer  took  the  same  interest  in  its 
sights.  More  populous  it  was,  noisier,  livelier  than 
ever.  In  the  gambling-annex  of  the  Paystreak  Saloon 
was  Mr.  Mosher  shuffling  and  dealing  methodically. 
Everywhere  I  saw  flushed  and  excited  miners,  each 
with  his  substantial  poke  of  dust.  It  was  usually  as 
big  as  a  pork-sausage,  yet  It  was  only  his  spending- 
poke.  Safely  in  the  bank  he  had  cached  half  a  dozen 
of  them  ten  times  as  big. 

These  were  the  halcyon  days.  Success  was  In  the 
air.  Men  were  drunk  with  it;  carried  off  their  feet, 
delirious.  Money!  It  had  lost  Its  value.  Every 
one  you  met  was  "lousy"  with  it;  threw  it  away 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  273 

with  both  hands,  and  fast  as  they  emptied  one  pocket 
it  filled  up  the  others.  Little  wonder  a  mad  elation, 
a  semi-frenzy  of  prodigality  prevailed,  for  every  day 
the  golden  valley  was  pouring  into  the  city  a  seem- 
ingly exhaustless  stream  of  treasure. 

I  saw  big  Alec,  one  of  the  leading  operators, 
coming  down  the  street  with  his  men.  He  carried  a 
Winchester,  and  he  had  a  pack-train  of  burros,  each 
laden  down  with  gold.  At  the  bank  flushed  and 
eager  mobs  were  clamouring  to  have  their  pokes 
weighed.  In  buckets,  coal-oil  cans,  every  kind  of 
receptacle,  lay  the  precious  dust.  Sweating  clerks 
were  handling  it  as  carelessly  as  a  grocer  handles 
sugar.  Goldsmiths  were  making  it  into  wonders  of 
barbaric  jewellery.  There  seemed  no  limit  to  the 
camp's  wealth.  Every  one  was  mad,  and  the  demi- 
mondaine  was  queen  of  all. 

I  saw  Hewson  and  Mervin.  They  had  struck  it 
rich  on  a  property  they  had  bought  on  Hunker.  For- 
tune was  theirs. 

"  Come  and  have  a  drink,"  said  Hewson.  Al- 
ready he  had  had  many.  His  face  was  relaxed, 
flushed,  already  showing  signs  of  a  flabby  degenera- 
tion. In  this  man  of  iron  sudden  success  was  in- 
sidiously at  work,  enervating  his  powers. 

Mervin,  too.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  in  the 
doorway  of  the  Green  Bay  Tree.  The  Maccaroni 
Kid  had  him  in  tow,  and  he  was  buying  wine. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  Locasto.  He  was  on  a  big 
debauch,  they  told  me.  Viola  Lennoir  had  "  got 
him  going." 


274  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

At  midnight,  at  the  door  of  the  Paragon,  I  was 
waiting  in  a  fever  of  impatience  when  Berna  came 
out. 

"  I'm  living  up  at  the  cabin,"  she  said;  "you  can 
walk  with  me  as  far  as  that.  That  is,  if  you  want 
to,"  she  added  coquettishly. 

She  was  very  bright  and  did  most  of  the  talking. 
She  showed  a  vast  joy  at  seeing  me. 

"  Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing,  dear — every- 
thing. Have  you  made  a  stake?  So  many  have.  I 
have  prayed  you  would,  too.  Then  we'll  go  away 
somewhere  and  forget  all  this.  We'll  go  to  Italy, 
where  it's  always  beautiful!  We'll  just  hve  for  each 
other.     Won't  we,  honey?  " 

She  nestled  up  to  me.  She  seemed  to  have  lost 
much  of  her  shyness.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  pre- 
ferred my  timid,  shrinking  Berna. 

"  It  will  take  a  whole  lot  to  make  me  forget  this," 
I  said  grimly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Isn't  it  frightful?  Somehow  I 
don't  seem  to  mind  so  much  now.  I'm  getting  used 
to  it,  I  suppose.  But  at  first — O,  it  was  terrible !  I 
thought  I  never  could  stand  it.  It's  wonderful  how 
we  get  accustomed  to  things,  Isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  bitterly. 

"  You  know,  those  rough  miners  are  good  to  me. 
I'm  a  queen  among  them,  because  they  know  I'm — 
all  right.  I've  had  several  offers  of  marriage,  too, 
really,  really  good  ones  from  wealthy  claim-owners." 

"Yes,"  still  more  bitterly. 

"  Yes,  young  man;  so  you  want  to  make  a  strike 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  275 

and  take  me  away  to  Italy.  Oh,  how  I  plan  and 
plan  for  us  two.  I  don't  care,  my  dearest,  if  you 
haven't  got  a  cent  in  the  world,  I'm  yours,  always 
yours." 

"  That's  all  right,  Berna,"  I  said.  "  I'm  going 
to  make  good.  I've  just  lost  a  fifty-thousand  dollar 
claim,  but  there's  more  coming  up.  By  the  first  of 
June  next  I'll  come  to  you  with  a  bank  account  of  six 
figures.  You'll  see,  my  little  girl.  I'm  going  to 
make  this  thing  stick." 

*'  You  foolish  boy,"  she  said;  "  it  doesn't  matter  if 
you  come  to  me  a  beggar  in  rags.  Come  to  me  any- 
way.     Come,  and  do  not  fail." 

"  What  about  Locasto?  "  I  asked. 

"  I've  scarcely  seen  anything  of  him.  He  leaves 
me  alone.     I  think  he's  interested  elsewhere." 

"  And  are  you  sure  you're  all  right,  dear,  down 
there?" 

"  Quite  sure.  These  men  would  risk  their  lives 
for  me.  The  other  kind  know  enough  to  leave  me 
alone.  Besides,  I  know  better  now  how  to  take  care 
of  myself.  You  remember  the  frightened  cry-baby  I 
used  to  be — well,  I've  learned  to  hold  my  own." 

She  was  extraordinarily  affectionate,  full  of  unex- 
pected little  ways  of  endearment,  and  clung  to  me 
when  we  parted,  making  me  promise  to  return  very 
soon.  Yes,  she  was  my  girl,  devoted  to  me,  attached 
to  me  by  every  tendril  of  her  being.  Every  look, 
every  word,  every  act  of  her  expressed  a  bright,  fine, 
radiant  love.  I  was  satisfied,  yet  unsatisfied,  and 
once  again  I  entreated  her. 


276  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Berna,  are  you  sure,  quite  sure,  you're  all  right 
in  that  place  among  all  that  folly  and  drunkenness  and 
vice?     Let  me  take  you  away,  dear." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  very  tenderly;  "  I'm  all  right. 
I  would  tell  you  at  once,  my  boy,  if  I  had  any  fear. 
That's  just  what  a  poor  girl  has  to  put  up  with  all 
the  time;  that's  what  I've  had  to  put  up  with  all  my 
life.  Believe  me,  boy,  I'm  wonderfully  blind  and 
deaf  at  times.     I  don't  think  I'm  very  bad,  am  I?  " 

"  You're  as  good  as  gold." 

"  For  your  sake  I'll  always  try  to  be,"  she  an- 
swered. 

As  we  were  kissing  good-bye  she  asked  timidly : 

"What  about  the  rouge,  dear?  Shall  I  cease  to 
use  it?" 

"  Poor  little  girl!  Oh  no,  I  don't  suppose  it  mat- 
ters. I've  got  very  old-fashioned  ideas.  Good-bye, 
darling." 

"  Good-bye,  beloved," 

I  went  away  treading  on  sunshine,  trembling  with 
joy,  thrilled  with  love  for  her,  blessing  her  anew. 

Yet  still  the  rouge  stuck  in  my  crop  as  if  it  were 
the  symbol  of  some  insidious  decadence. 


CHAPTER  XV 

It  was  about  two  months  later  when  I  returned  from 
a  flying  visit  to  Dawson. 

"  Lots  of  mail  for  you  two,"  I  cried,  exultantly 
bursting  into  the  cabin. 

"Mail?     Hooray!" 

Jim  and  the  Prodigal,  who  were  lying  on  their 
bunks,  leapt  up  eagerly.  No  one  longs  for  his  let- 
ters like  your  Northern  exile,  and  for  two  whole 
months  we  had  not  heard  from  the  outside. 

"  Yes,  I  got  over  fifty  letters  between  us  three. 
Drew  about  a  dozen  myself,  there's  half  a  dozen  for 
you,  Jim,  and  the  balance  for  you,  old  sport." 

I  handed  the  Prodigal  about  two  dozen  letters. 

"  Ha !  now  we'll  have  the  whole  evening  just  to 
browse  on  them.  My,  what  a  stack!  How  was  it 
you  had  a  time  getting  them?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  when  I  got  into  town  the  mail 
had  just  been  sorted,  and  there  was  a  string  of  over 
three  hundred  men  waiting  at  the  general  delivery 
wicket.  I  took  my  place  at  the  tail-end  of  the  line, 
and  every  newcomer  fell  in  behind  me.  My!  but  it 
was  such  weary  waiting,  moving  up  step  by  step;  but 
I'd  just  about  got  there  when  closing-time  came. 
They  wouldn't  give  out  any  more  mail — after  my 
three  hours'  wait,  too." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

277 


278  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Well,  it  seems  every  one  gives  way  to  the  women- 
folk. So  I  happened  to  see  a  girl  friend  of  mine, 
and  she  said  she  would  go  round  first  thing  in  the 
morning  and  enquire  if  there  were  any  letters  for  us. 
She  brought  me  this  bunch." 

I  indicated  the  pile  of  letters. 

"  I'm  told  lots  of  women  in  town  make  a  business 
of  getting  letters  for  men,  and  charge  a  dollar  a  let- 
ter. It's  awful  how  hard  it  is  to  get  mail.  Half  of 
the  clerks  seem  scarcely  able  to  read  the  addresses  on 
the  envelopes.  It's  positively  sad  to  watch  the  faces 
of  the  poor  wretches  who  get  nothing,  knowing,  too, 
that  the  chances  are  there  is  really  something  for  them 
sorted  away  in  a  wrong  box." 

"  That's  pretty  tough." 

"  Yes,  you  should  have  seen  them;  men  just  raven- 
ous to  hear  from  their  families;  a  clerk  carelessly 
shuffling  through  a  pile  of  letters.  '  Beachwood,  did 
you  say?  Nope,  nothing  for  you.'  '  Hold  on 
there!  what's  that  in  your  hand?  Surely  I  know 
my  wife's  writing.'  '  Beachwood — yep,  that's  right. 
Looked  like  Peachwood  to  me.  All  right.  Next 
there.'  Then  the  man  would  go  off  with  his  letter, 
looking  half-wrathful,  half-radiant.  Well,  I  enjoyed 
my  trip,  but  I'm  glad  I'm  home." 

I  threw  myself  on  my  bunk  voluptuously,  and  be- 
gan re-reading  my  letters.  There  were  some  from 
Garry  and  some  from  Mother.  While  still  unrecon- 
ciled to  the  life  I  was  leading,  they  were  greatly  in- 
terested in  my  wildly  cheerful  accounts  of  the  coun- 
try.    They  were  disposed  to  be  less  censorious,  and  I 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  279 

for  my  part  was  only  too  glad  Mother  was  well 
enough  to  write,  even  If  she  did  scold  me  sometimes. 
So  I  was  able  to  open  my  mail  without  misgivings. 

But  I  was  still  aglow  with  memories  of  the  last 
few  hours.  Once  more  I  had  seen  Berna,  spent  mo- 
ments with  her  of  perfect  bliss,  left  her  with  my  mind 
full  of  exaltation  and  bewildered  gratitude.  She  was 
the  perfect  answer  to  my  heart's  call,  a  mirror  that 
seemed  to  flash  back  the  challenge  of  my  joy.  I  saw 
the  love  mists  gather  in  her  eyes,  I  felt  her  sweet  lips 
mould  themselves  to  mine,  I  thrilled  with  the  sheath- 
ing ardour  of  her  arms.  Never  in  my  fondest 
imaginings  had  I  conceived  that  such  a  wealth  of 
affection  would  ever  be  for  me.  Buoyant  she  was, 
brave,  inspiring,  and  always  with  her  buoyancy  so 
wondrous  tender  I  felt  that  willingly  would  I  die  for 
her. 

Once  again  I  told  her  of  my  fear,  my  anxiety  for 
her  safety  among  those  rough  men  in  that  cesspool 
of  iniquity.  Very  earnestly  she  strove  to  reassure 
me. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  it  is  in  those  rough  men,  the  un- 
couth, big-hearted  miners,  that  I  place  my  trust. 
They  know  I'm  a  good  girl.  They  wouldn't  say  a 
coarse  thing  before  me  for  the  world.  You've  no 
idea  the  chivalrous  respect  they  show  for  me,  and  the 
rougher  they  are  the  finer  their  instincts  seem  to  be. 
It's  the  others,  the  so-called  gentlemen,  who  would 
like  to  take  advantage  of  me  if  they  could." 

She  looked  at  me  with  bright,  clear  eyes,  fearless 
in  their  scorn  of  sham  and  pretence. 


28o  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Then  there  are  the  women.  It's  strange,  but  no 
matter  how  degraded  they  are  they  try  to  shield  and 
protect  me.  Only  last  week  Kimona  Kate  made  a 
fearful  scene  with  her  escort  because  he  said  some- 
thing bad  before  me.  I'm  getting  tolerant.  Oh, 
you've  no  idea  until  you  know  them  what  good  qual- 
ities some  of  these  women  have.  Often  their  hearts 
are  as  big  as  all  out-doors;  they  would  nurse  you  de- 
votedly if  you  were  sick;  they  would  give  you  their 
last  dollar  if  you  were  in  want.  Many  of  them  have 
old  mothers  and  little  children  they're  supporting  out- 
side, and  they  would  rather  die  than  that  their  dear 
ones  should  know  the  life  they  are  living.  It's  the 
men,  the  men  that  are  to  blame." 

I  shook  my  head  sadly. 

"  I  don't  like  it,  Berna,  I  don't  like  it  at  all.  I 
hate  you  to  know  the  like  of  such  people,  such  things. 
I  just  want  you  to  be  again  the  dear,  sweet  little  girl 
I  first  knew,  all  maidenly  modesty  and  shuddering 
aversion  of  evil." 

"  I'm  afraid,  dear,  I  shall  never  be  that  again,"  she 
said  sorrowfully;  "  but  am  I  any  the  worse  for  know- 
ing? Why  should  you  men  want  to  keep  all  such 
knowledge  to  yourselves?  Is  our  innocence  simply 
to  be  another  name  for  ignorance  ?  " 

She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  and  kissed  me 
fervently. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  my  dear.  I  have  seen  the 
vileness  of  things,  and  it  only  makes  me  more  in  love 
with  love  and  beauty.  We'll  go,  you  and  I,  to  Italy 
very  soon,  and  forget,  forget.     Even  if  we  have  to 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  281 

toil  like  peasants  in  the  vineyards  we'll  go,  far,  far 
away." 

So  I  felt  strengthened,  stimulated,  gladdened,  and, 
as  I  lay  on  my  bunk  listening  to  the  merry  crackle  of 
the  wood  fire,  I  was  in  a  purring  lethargy  of  content. 
Then  I  remembered  something. 

"  Oh,  say,  boys,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  I  met  Mc- 
Crimmon  down  the  creek.  You  remember  him  on 
the  trail,  the  Halfbreed.  He  was  asking  after  you 
both;  then  all  at  once  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  us  on 
important  business.  He  has  a  proposal  to  make,  he 
says,  that  would  be  greatly  to  our  advantage.  He's 
coming  along  this  evening. — What's  the  matter, 
Jim  ?  " 

Jim  was  staring  blankly  at  one  of  the  letters  he  had 
received.  His  face  was  a  picture  of  distress,  mis- 
ery, despair.  Without  replying,  he  went  and  knelt 
down  by  his  bed.  He  sighed  deeply.  Slowly  his 
face  grew  calm  again ;  then  I  saw  that  he  was  praying. 
We  were  silent  in  respectful  sympathy,  but  when, 
in  a  little,  he  got  up  and  went  out,  I  followed 
him. 

"  Had  bad  news,  old  man?  " 

"  I've  had  a  letter  that's  upset  me.  I'm  in  a  ter- 
rible position.  If  ever  I  wanted  strength  and  guid- 
ance, I  want  it  now." 

"  Heard  about  that  man?  " 

"Yes,  it's  him,  all  right;  it's  Mosher.  I  sus- 
picioned  it  all  along.  Here's  a  letter  from  my 
brother.  He  says  there's  no  doubt  that  Mosher  is 
Moseley." 


282  THE   TRAIL  OF   '98 

His  eyes  were  stormy,  his  face  tragic  in  its  bitter- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  worshipped  that 
woman,  trusted  her,  would  have  banked  my  hfe  on 
,  her;  and  when  I  was  away  making  money  for  her  she 
ups  and  goes  away  with  that  slimy  reptile.  In  the 
old  days  I  would  have  torn  him  to  pieces,  but 
nov/ " 

He  sighed  distractedly. 

"What  am  I  to  do?  What  am  I  to  do?  The 
Good  Book  says  forgive  your  enemies,  but  how  can 
I  forgive  a  wrong  like  that?  And  my  poor  girl — 
he  deserted  her,  drove  her  to  the  streets.  Ugh !  if  I 
could  kill  him  by  slow  torture,  gloat  over  his  agony — 
but  I  can't,  can  I?  " 

"  No,  Jim,  you  can't  do  anything.  Vengeance  is 
the  Lord's." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  But  it's  hard,  it's  hard. 
O  my  girl,  my  girl!" 

Tears  overran  his  cheeks.  He  sat  down  on  a  log, 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  O  God,  help  and  sustain  me  in  this  my  hour  of 
need." 

I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  comfort  him,  and  it  was 
while  I  was  waiting  there  that  suddenly  we  saw  the 
Halfbreed  coming  up  the  trail. 

"  Better  come  in,  Jim,"  I  said,  "  and  hear  what  he's 
got  to  say." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

We  made  McCrlmmon  comfortable.  We  kept  no 
whisky  In  the  cabin,  but  we  gave  him  some  hot  cof- 
fee, which  he  drank  with  great  satisfaction.  Then 
he  twisted  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and  looked  at  us  keenly. 
On  his  brown,  flatfish  face  were  remarkable  the  im- 
passivity of  the  Indian  and  the  astuteness  of  the 
Scot.  We  were  regarding  him  curiously.  Jim  had 
regained  his  calm,  and  was  quietly  watchful.  The 
Prodigal  seemed  to  have  his  ears  cocked  to  listen. 
There  was  a  feeling  amongst  us  as  if  we  had  reached 
a  crisis  in  our  fortunes. 

The  Halfbreed  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  the  point. 

"  I  like  you  boys.  You're  square  and  above- 
board.  You're  workers,  and  you  don't  drink^ — that's 
the  main  thing. 

"  Well,  to  get  right  down  to  cases.  I'm  a  bit  of  a 
mining  man.  I've  mined  at  Casslar  and  Caribou, 
and  I  know  something  of  the  business.  Now  I've 
got  next  to  a  good  thing. — I  don't  know  how  good 
yet,  but  I'll  swear  to  you  it's  a  tidy  bit.  There  may 
be  only  ten  thousand  in  It,  and  there  may  be  one  hun- 
dred and  ten.  It's  a  gambling  proposition,  and  I 
want  pardners,  pardners  that'll  work  like  blazes  and 
keep  their  faces  shut.     Are  you  on  ?  " 

"  That's  got  us  kodaked,"  said  the  Prodigal. 
"  We're  that  sort,  and  If  the  proposition  looks  good 

283 


284  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

to  us  we're  with  you.  Anyway,  we're  clams  at  keep- 
ing our  food-traps  tight." 

"All  right;  listen.  You  know  the  Arctic  Trans- 
portation Co.  have  claims  on  upper  Bonanza — well, 
a  month  back  I  was  working  for  them.  We  were 
down  about  twenty  feet  and  were  drifting  in.  They 
set  me  to  work  in  the  drift.  The  roof  kept  slough- 
ing in  on  me,  and  it  was  mighty  dangerous.  So  far 
we  hadn't  got  pay-dirt,  but  their  mining  manager 
wanted  us  to  drift  in  a  little  further.  If  we  didn't 
strike  good  pay  in  a  few  more  feet  we  were  to  quit. 

"  Well,  one  morning  I  went  down  and  cleaned 
away  the  ash  of  my  fire.  The  first  stroke  of  my  pick 
on  the  thawed  face  made  me  jump,  stare,  stand  stock- 
still,  thinking  hard.  For  there,  right  in  the  hole  I 
had  made,  was  the  richest  pocket  I  ever  seen." 

"You  don't  say!     Are  you  sure?" 

"  Why,  boys,  as  I'm  alive  there  was  nuggets  in  it 
as  thick  as  raisins  in  a  Christmas  plum-duff.  I  could 
see  the  yellow  gleam  where  the  pick  had  grazed  them, 
and  the  longer  I  looked  the  more  could  I  see." 

"  Good  Lord!     What  did  you  do?  " 

"  What  did  I  do !  I  just  stepped  back  and  picked 
at  the  roof  for  all  I  was  worth.  A  big  bunch  of  muck 
came  down,  covering  up  the  face.  Then,  like  a  crazy 
man,  I  picked  wherever  the  dirt  seemed  loose  all  the 
way  down  the  drift.  Great  heaps  of  dirt  caved  in  on 
me.  I  was  stunned,  nearly  buried,  but  I  did  the  trick. 
There  were  tons  of  dirt  between  me  and  my  find." 

We  gasped  with  amazement. 

"  The  rest  was  easy.     I  went  up  the  shaft  groaning 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  285 

and  cursing.  I  pretended  to  faint.  I  told  them  the 
roof  of  the  drift  had  fallen  in  on  me.  It  was  rot- 
ten stuff,  anyway,  and  they  knew  it.  They  didn't 
mind  me  risking  my  life.  I  cursed  them,  said  I  would 
sue  the  Company,  and  went  off  looking  too  sore  for 
words.  The  Manager  was  disgusted,  he  went  down 
and  took  a  look  at  things ;  declared  he  would  throw  up 
the  work  at  that  place ;  the  ground  was  no  good.  He 
made  that  report  to  the  Company." 

The  Halfbreed  looked  round  triumphantly. 

"  Now,  here's  the  point.  We  can  get  a  lay  on  that 
ground.  One  of  you  boys  must  apply  for  It.  They 
mustn't  know  I'm  in  with  you,  or  they  would  suspect 
right  away.  They're  none  too  scrupulous  themselves 
in  their  dealings." 

He  paused  impressively. 

"  You  cinch  that  lay  agreement.  Get  it  signed 
right  away.  We'll  go  In  and  work  like  Old  Nick. 
We'll  make  a  big  clean-up  by  Spring.  I'll  take  you 
right  to  the  gold.  There's  thousands  and  thousands 
lying  snug  In  the  ground  just  waiting  for  us.  It's 
right  in  our  mit.     Oh,  it's  a  cinch,  a  cinch  I  " 

The  Halfbreed  almost  grew  excited.  Bending  for- 
ward, he  eyed  us  keenly.  In  a  breathless  silence  we 
stared  at  each  other. 

"  Well,"  I  objected,  "  seems  to  be  putting  up 
rather  a  job  on  the  Company." 

Jim  was  silent,  but  the  Prodigal  cut  In  sharply: 

"Job  nothing— it's  a  square  proposition.  We 
don't  know  for  certain  that  gold's  there.  Maybe  it's 
only  a  piffling  pocket,  and  we'll  get  souped  for  our 


286  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

pains.  No,  it  seems  to  me  it's  a  fair  gambling 
proposition.  We're  taking  all  kinds  of  chances.  It 
means  awful  hard  work;  it  means  privation  and, 
maybe,  bitter  disappointment.  It's  a  gamble,  I  tell 
you,  and  are  we  going  to  be  such  poor  sports  as  turn 
it  down?  I  for  one  am  strongly  in  favour  of  it. 
What  do  you  say?  A  big  sporting  chance — are  you 
there,  boys,  are  you  there  ?  " 

He  almost  shouted  in  his  excitement. 

"  Hush !  Some  one  might  hear  you,"  warned  the 
Halfbreed. 

"  Yes,  that's  right.  Well,  it  looks  mighty  good  to 
me,  and  if  you  boys  are  willing  we'll  just  draw  up  pa- 
pers and  sign  an  agreement  right  away.     Is  it  a  go?  " 

We  nodded,  so  he  got  ink  and  paper  and  drew 
up  a  form  of  partnership. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  his  eyes  dancing,  "now,  to  secure 
that  lay  before  any  one  else  cuts  in  on  us.  Gee !  but 
it's  getting  dark  and  cold  outdoors  these  days.  Snow 
falling;  well,  I  must  mush  to  Dawson  to-night." 

He  hurried  on  some  warm,  yet  light,  clothing,  all 
the  time  talking  excitedly  of  the  chance  that  fortune 
had  thrown  in  our  way,  and  gleeful  as  a  schoolboy. 

"  Now,  boys,"  he  says,  "  hope  I'll  have  good  luck. 
Jim,  put  in  a  prayer  for  me.  Well,  see  you  all  to- 
morrow.    Good-bye." 

It  was  late  next  night  when  he  returned.  We 
were  sitting  in  the  cabin,  anxious  and  expectant,  when 
he  threw  open  the  door.  He  was  tired,  wet,  dirty, 
but  irrepressibly  jubilant. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  287 

"  Hurrah,  boys!  "  he  cried.  "  I've  cinched  it.  I 
saw  Mister  Manager  of  the  big  Company.  He  was 
very  busy,  very  important,  very  patronising.  I  was 
the  poor  miner  seeking  a  lay.  I  played  the  part  well. 
He  began  by  telling  me  he  didn't  want  to  give  any 
lays  at  present;  just  wanted  to  stand  me  off,  you 
know;  make  me  more  keen.  I  spoke  about  some  of 
their  ground  on  Hunker.  He  didn't  seem  enthusi- 
astic. Then,  at  last,  as  if  in  despair,  I  mentioned 
this  bit  on  Bonanza.  I  could  see  he  was  itching  to 
let  me  have  it,  but  he  was  too  foxy  to  show  it.  He 
actually  told  me  it  was  an  extra  rich  piece  of  ground, 
when  all  the  time  he  knew  his  own  mining  engineer 
had  condemned  it." 

The  Prodigal's  eyes  danced  delightedly. 

"  Well,  we  sparred  round  a  bit  like  two  fake 
fighters.  My !  but  he  was  wily,  that  old  Jew. 
Finally  he  agreed  to  let  me  have  it  on  a  fifty-per-cent. 
basis.  Don't  faint,  boys.  Fifty  per  cent.,  I  said. 
I'm  sorry.  It  was  the  best  I  could  do,  and  you  know 
I'm  not  slow.  That  means  they  get  half  of  all  we 
take  out.  Oh,  the  old  shark!  the  robber!  I  tried 
to  beat  him  down,  but  he  stood  pat;  wouldn't  budge. 
So  I  gave  in,  and  we  signed  the  lay  agreement,  and 
now  everything's  in  shape.  Gee  whiz !  didn't  I  give 
a  sigh  of  relief  when  I  got  outside !  He  thinks  I'm 
the  fall  guy,  and  went  off  chuckling." 

He  raised  his  voice  triumphantly. 

"  And  now,  boys,  we've  got  the  ground  cinched,  so 
get  action  on  yourselves.  Here's  where  we  make 
our  first  real  stab  at  fortune.     Here's  where  we  even 


288  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

up  on  the  hard  jabs  she's  handed  us  In  the  past;  here's 
where  we  score  a  bull's-eye,  or  I  miss  my  guess.  The 
gold's  there,  boys,  you  can  bank  on  that;  and  the 
harder  we  work  the  more  we're  going  to  get  of  it. 
Now,  we're  going  to  work  hard.  We're  going  to 
make  ordinary  hard  work  look  like  a  Summer  vaca- 
tion. We're  going  to  work  for  all  we're  worth — 
and  then  some.  Are  you  there,  boys,  are  you  there  ?  " 
"  We  are,"  we  shouted  with  one  accord. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  Every  hour  ior  us 
meant  so  much  more  of  that  precious  pay-dirt  that 
lay  under  the  frozen  surface.  The  Winter  leapt  on 
us  with  a  swoop,  a  harsh,  unconciliating  Winter,  that 
made  out-door  ,vork  an  unmitigated  hardship.  But 
there  was  the  hope  of  fortune  nerving  and  bracing 
us,  till  we  lost  in  it  all  thought  of  self.  Nothing 
short  of  desperate  sickness,  death  even,  would  drive 
us  from  our  posts.  It  was  with  this  dauntless  spirit 
we  entered  on  the  task  before  us. 

And,  indeed,  it  was  one  that  called  for  all  in  a 
man  of  energy  and  self-sacrifice.  There  was  wood  to 
get  for  the  thawing  of  the  ground;  there  was  a  cabin 
to  be  built  on  the  claim;  and,  lastly,  there  was  a  vast 
dump  to  be  taken  out  of  the  ground  for  the  spring 
sluicing.  We  planned  things  so  that  no  man  would 
be  idle  for  a  moment,  and  so  that  every  ounce  of 
strength  expended  would  show  its  result. 

The  Halfbreed  took  charge,  and  we,  recognising  it 
as  his  show,  obeyed  him  implicitly.  He  decided  to 
put  down  two  holes  to  bed-rock,  and,  after  much 
deliberation,  selected  the  places.  This  was  a  matter 
for  the  greatest  judgment  and  experience,  and  we 
were  satisfied  that  he  had  both. 

We  ran  up  a  little  cabin  and  banked  it  nearly  to 
the    low    eaves    with   snow.     By-and-bye   more    fell 

289 


290  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

on  the  roof  to  the  depth  of  three  feet,  so  that  the 
place  seemed  like  a  huge  white  hummock.  Only  in 
front  could  you  recognise  it  as  a  cabin  by  the  low 
doorway,  where  we  had  always  to  stoop  on  entering. 
Within  were  our  bunks,  a  tiny  stove,  a  few  boxes  to 
sit  on,  a  few  dishes,  our  grub;  that  was  all.  Often 
we  regretted  our  big  cabin  on  the  hill,  with  its  calico- 
lined  "  den  "  and  its  separate  kitchen.  But  in  this 
little  box  of  a  home  we  were  to  put  in  many  weary 
months. 

Not  that  the  time  seemed  long  to  us;  we  were  too 
busy  for  that.  Indeed,  often  we  wished  it  were 
twice  as  long.  Snow  had  fallen  in  September,  and 
by  December  we  were  in  an  Arctic  world  of  uncom- 
promising harshness.  Day  after  day  the  glass  stood 
between  forty  and  fifty  below  zero.  It  was  hate- 
fully, dangerously  cold.  It  seemed  as  if  the  frost- 
fiend  had  a  cruel  grudge  against  us.  It  made  us 
grim — and  careful.  We  didn't  talk  much  in  those 
days.  We  just  worked,  worked,  worked,  and  when 
we  did  talk  it  was  of  our  work,  our  ceaseless  work. 

Would  we  strike  it  rich?  It  was  all  a  gamble, 
the  most  exciting  gamble  in  the  world.  It  thrilled 
our  day  hours  with  excitement;  it  haunted  our  sleep; 
it  lent  strength  to  the  pick-stroke  and  vigour  to  the 
windlass-crank.  It  made  us  forget  the  bitter  cold, 
till  some  one  would  exclaim,  and  gently  knead  the 
fresh  snow  on  our  faces.  The  cold  burned  our 
cheeks  a  fierce  brick-red,  and  a  frost-bite  showed  on 
them  like  a  patch  of  white  putty.  The  old  scars, 
never  healing,  were  like  blotches  of  lamp-black. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  291 

But  neither  cold  nor  fatigue  could  keep  us  away 
from  the  shaft  and  the  drift.  We  had  gone  down 
to  bed-rock,  and  were  tunnelling  in  to  meet  the  hole 
the  Halfbreed  had  covered  up.  So  far  we  had  found 
nothing.  Every  day  we  panned  samples  of  the  dirt, 
always  getting  colours,  sometimes  a  fifty-cent  pan,  but 
never  what  we  dreamed  of,  hoped  for. 

"  Wait,  boys,  till  we  get  a  two-hundred-dollar  pan, 
then  we'll  begin  to  whoop  it  up  some." 

Once  the  Company  Manager  came  down  on  a  dog- 
team.  He  looked  over  our  shaft.  He  wore  a  coon 
coat,  with  a  cap  of  beaver,  and  huge  fur  mits  hung 
by  a  cord  around  his  neck.  He  was  massive  and  im- 
passive.    Spiky  icicles  bristled  around  his  mouth. 

"What  luck,  boys?"  His  breath  came  like 
steam. 

"  None,  so  far,"  we  told  him,  wearily,  and  off  he 
went  into  the  frozen  gloom,  saying  he  hoped  we 
would  strike  it  before  long. 

"  Wait  a  while." 

We  were  working  two  men  to  a  shaft,  burning  our 
ground  over  night.  The  Prodigal  and  I  manned  the 
windlasses,  while  the  old  miners  went  down  the  drifts. 
It  was  a  cold,  cold  job  standing  there  on  that  rugged 
platform  turning  the  windlass-crank.  Long  before 
it  was  fairly  light  we  got  to  our  posts,  and  lowered 
our  men  into  the  hole.  The  air  was  warmer  down 
there;  but  the  work  was  harder,  more  difficult,  more 
dangerous. 

At  noon  there  was  no  sunshine,  only  a  wan,  ashen 
light  that  suffused  the  sky.     A  deathlike  stillness  lay 


292  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

on  the  valley,  not  a  quiver  or  movement  in  leaf  or 
blade.  The  snow  was  a  shroud,  smooth  save  where 
the  funereal  pines  pricked  through.  In  that  intensity 
of  cold,  that  shivering  agony  of  desolation,  it  seemed 
as  if  nature  was  laughing  at  us — the  Cosmic  Laugh. 

Our  meals  were  hurriedly  cooked  and  bolted.  We 
grudged  every  moment  of  our  respite  from  toil.  At 
night  we  often  were  far  too  weary  to  undress.  We 
lost  our  regard  for  cleanliness;  we  neglected  our- 
selves. Always  we  talked  of  the  result  of  the  day's 
panning  and  the  chances  of  to-morrow.  Surely  we 
would  strike  it  soon. 

"Wait  awhile."  , 

Colder  it  grew  and  colder.  Our  kerosene  flowed 
like  mush.  The  water  froze  solid  in  our  kettle. 
Our  bread  was  full  of  icy  particles.  Everything  had 
to  be  thawed  out  continually.  It  was  tiresome,  ex- 
asperating, when  we  were  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry. 
It  kept  us  back;  it  angered  us,  this  pest  of  a  cold. 
Our  tempers  began  to  suffer.  We  were  short, 
taciturn.     The  strain  was  beginning  to  tell  on  us. 

"  Wait  awhile." 

Then,  one  afternoon,  the  Something  happened.  It 
was  Jim  who  was  the  chosen  one.  About  three 
o'clock  he  signalled  to  be  hoisted  up,  and  when  he  ap- 
peared he  was  carrying  a  pan  of  dirt.  "  Call  the 
others,"  he  said. 

All  together  in  the  little  cabin  we  stood  round, 
while  Jim  washed  out  the  pan  in  snow-water  melted 
over  our  stove.  I  will  never  forget  how  eagerly  we 
watched  the  gravel,  and  the  whirling,  dexterous  move- 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  293 

ments  of  the  old  man.  We  could  see  gleams  of  yel- 
low in  the  muddy  water.  Thrills  of  joy  and  hope 
went  through  us.  We  had  got  the  thing,  the  big 
thing,  at  last. 

"  Hurry,  Jim,*'  I  said,  "  or  I'll  die  of  suspense." 

Patiently  he  went  on.  There  it  was  at  last  in  the 
bottom  of  the  pan — sweeter  to  our  eyes  than  to  a 
woman  the  sight  of  her  first-born.  There  it  lay,  glit- 
tering, gleaming  gold,  fine  gold,  coarse  gold,  nuggety 
gold. 

"  Now,  boys,  you  can  whoop  it  up,"  said  Jim 
quietly;  "for  there's  many  and  many  a  pan  like  it 
down  there  in  the  drift." 

But  never  a  whoop.  What  was  the  matter  with 
us?  When  the  fortune  we  had  longed  for  so  eagerly 
came  at  last,  we  did  not  greet  it  even  with  a  cheer. 
Oh,  we  were  painfully  silent. 

Solemnly  we  shook  hands  all  round. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  Now  to  weigh  it,"  said  the  Prodigal. 

On  the  tiny  pair  of  scales  we  turned  it  out — ninety- 
five  dollars'  worth. 

Well,  it  was  a  good  start,  and  we  were  all  pos- 
sessed with  a  frantic  eagerness  to  go  down  in  the  drift. 
I  crawled  along  the  tunnel.  There,  in  the  face  of  it, 
I  could  see  the  gold  shining,  and  the  longer  I  looked 
the  more  I  seemed  to  see.  It  was  rich,  rich.  I 
picked  out  and  burnished  a  nugget  as  large  as  a 
filbert.  There  were  lots  of  others  like  it.  It  was  a 
strike.  The  question  was :  how  much  was  there  of 
it?  The  Halfbreed  soon  settled  our  doubts  on  that 
score. 

"  It  stands  to  reason  the  pay  runs  between  where  I 
first  found  it  and  where  we've  struck  it  now.  That 
alone  means  a  tidy  stake  for  each  of  us.  Say,  boys, 
if  you  were  to  cover  all  that  distance  with  twenty- 
dollar  gold  pieces  six  feet  wide,  and  packed  edge  to 
edge,  I  wouldn't  take  them  for  our  interest  in  that 
bit  of  ground.  I  see  a  fine  big  ranch  in  Manitoba 
for  my  share;  ay,  and  hired  help  to  run  it.  The  only 
thing  that  sticks  in  my  gullet  is  that  fifty  per  cent,  to 
the  Company." 

"  Well,  we  can't  kick,"  I  said;  "  we'd  never  have 
got  the  lay  if  they'd  had  a  hunch.  My!  won't  they 
be  sore?  " 

294 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  295 

Sure  enough,  in  a  few  days  the  news  leaked  out, 
and  the  Manager  came  post-haste. 

"  Hear  you've  struck  it  rich,  boys." 

"  So  rich  that  I  guess  we'll  have  to  pack  down 
gravel  from  the  benches  to  mix  in  before  we  can 
sluice  it,"  said  the  Prodigal. 

"  You  don't  say.  Well,  I'll  have  to  have  a  man 
on  the  ground  to  look  after  our  interests." 

"  All  right.     It  means  a  good  thing  for  you." 

"  Yes,  but  it  would  have  meant  a  better  if  we  had 
worked  it  ourselves.  However,  you  boys  deserve 
your  luck.     Hello,  the  devil " 

He  turned  round   and  saw  the   Halfbreed.     He 

gave  a  long  whistle  and  went  away,  looking  pensive. 
******* 

It  was  the  night  of  the  discovery  when  the  Prodigal 
made  us  an  address. 

"  Look  here,  boys;  do  you  know  what  this  means? 
It  means  victory;  it  means  freedom,  happiness,  the 
things  we  want,  the  life  we  love.  To  me  it  means 
travel,  New  York,  Paris,  evening  dress,  the  opera. 
To  McCrimmon  here  it  means  his  farm.  To  each 
according  to  his  notion,  it  means  the  '  Things  That 
Matter.' 

"  Now,  we've  just  begun.  The  hardest  part  is  to 
come,  is  to  get  out  the  fortune  that's  right  under  our 
feet.  We're  going  to  get  every  cent  of  it,  boys. 
There's  a  little  over  three  months  to  do  it  in,  leav- 
ing about  a  month  to  make  sluice-boxes  and  clean  up 
the  dirt.  We've  got  to  work  like  men  at  a  burning 
barn.     We've   worked   hard,   but   we've   got   to   go 


296  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

some  yet.  For  my  part,  I'm  willing  to  do  stunts 
that  will  make  my  previous  record  look  like  a  plugged 
dime.     I  guess  you  boys  all  feel  the  same  way." 

"You  bet  we  do." 

"  Well,  nuf  sed;  let's  get  busy." 

So,  once  more,  with  redoubled  energy,  we  resumed 
our  tense,  unremitting  round  of  toil.  Now,  however, 
it  was  vastly  different.  Every  bucket  of  dirt  meant 
money  in  our  pockets,  every  stroke  of  the  pick  a  dol- 
lar. Not  that  it  was  all  like  the  first  rich  pocket  we 
had  struck.  It  proved  a  most  erratic  and  puzzling 
paystreak — one  day  rich  beyond  our  dreams,  another 
too  poor  to  pay  for  the  panning.  We  swung  on  a 
pendulum  of  hope  and  despair.  Perhaps  this  made 
it  all  the  more  exciting,  and  stimulated  us  unnaturally, 
and  always  we  cursed  that  primitive  method  of  mining 
that  made  every  bucket  of  dirt  the  net  result  of  infinite 
labor. 

Every  day  our  two  dumps  increased  in  size  (for 
we  had  struck  pay  on  the  other  shaft) ,  and  every  day 
our  assurance  and  elation  increased  correspondingly. 
It  was  bruited  around  that  we  had  one  of  the  rich- 
est bits  of  ground  in  the  country,  and  many  came  to 
gaze  at  us.  It  used  to  lighten  my  labours  at  the 
windlass  to  see  their  looks  of  envy  and  to  hear  their 
awe-stricken  remarks. 

"That's  one  of  them,"  they  would  say;  "one  of 
the  lucky  four,  the  lucky  laymen." 

So,  as  the  facts,  grossly  exaggerated,  got  noised 
abroad,  they  came  to  call  us  the  "  Lucky  Laymen." 

Looking  back,  there  will  always  seem  to  me  some- 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  297 

thing  weird  and  incomprehensible  in  those  twiHght 
days,  an  unreality,  a  vagueness  like  some  dreary,  fever- 
ish dream.  For  three  months  I  did  not  see  my  face 
in  a  mirror.  Not  that  I  wanted  to,  but  I  mention 
this  just  to  show  how  little  we  thought  of  ourselves. 

In  like  manner,  never  did  I  have  a  moment's  time 
to  regard  my  inner  self  in  the  mirror  of  conscious- 
ness. No  mental  analysis  now;  no  long  hours  of  re- 
trospection, no  tete-a-tete  interviews  with  my  soul. 
At  times  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lost  my  identity.  I  was  a 
slave  of  the  genie  Gold,  releasing  it  from  its  prison  in 
the  frozen  bowels  of  the  earth.  I  was  an  automaton 
turning  a  crank  in  the  frozen  stillness  of  the  long, 
long  night. 

It  was  a  life  despotically  objective,  and  now,  as  I 
look  back,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  never  lived  it  at  all, 
I  seem  to  look  down  a  long,  dark  funnel  and  see  a 
little  machine-man  bearing  my  semblance,  patiently, 
steadily,  wearily  turning  the  handle  of  a  windlass  in 
the  clear,  lancinating  cold  of  those  sombre,  silent  days. 

I  say  "  bearing  my  outward  semblance,"  and  yet  I 
sometimes  wonder  if  that  rough-bearded  figure  in 
heavy  woollen  clothes  looked  the  least  like  me.  I 
wore  heav^y  sweaters,  mackinaw  trousers,  thick  Ger- 
man socks  and  moccasins.  From  frequent  freezing 
my  cheeks  were  corroded.  I  was  miserably  thin,  and 
my  eyes  had  a  wild,  staring  expression  through  the 
pupils  dilating  in  the  long  darkness.  Yes,  mentally 
and  physically  I  was  no  more  like  myself  than  a  con- 
vict enduring  out  his  life  in  the  soulless  routine  of  a 
prison. 


298  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

The  days  were  lengthening  marvellously.  We 
noted  the  fact  with  dull  joy.  It  meant  more  light, 
more  time,  more  dirt  in  the  dump.  So  it  came 
about  that,  from  ten  hours  of  toil,  we  went  to 
twelve,  to  fourteen;  then,  latterly,  to  sixteen,  and 
the  tension  of  it  was  wearing  us  down  to  skin  and 
bone. 

We  were  all  feeling  wretched,  overstrained,  ill- 
nourished,  and  it  was  only  voicing  the  general  senti- 
ment when,  one  day,  the  Prodigal  remarked: 

"  I  guess  I'll  have  to  let  up  for  a  couple  of  days. 
My  teeth  are  all  on  the  bum.  I'm  going  to  town  to 
see  a  dentist." 

"  Let  me  look  at  them,"  said  the  Halfbreed. 

He  looked.  The  gums  were  sullen,  unwholesome- 
looking. 

"Why,  it's  a  touch  of  scurvy,  lad;  a  little  while, 
and  you'd  be  spitting  out  your  teeth  like  orange  pips; 
your  legs  would  turn  black,  and  when  you  squeezed 
your  fingers  into  the  flesh  the  hole  would  stay.  You'd 
get  rotten,  then  you'd  mortify  and  die.  But  it's  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  cure.  Nothing  responds 
to  treatment  so  readily." 

He  made  a  huge  brew  of  green-spruce  tea,  of  which 
we  all  partook,  and  in  a  few  days  the  Prodigal  was  fit 
again. 

It  was  mid-March  when  we  finished  working  out 
our  ground.  We  had  done  well,  not  so  well,  per- 
haps, as  we  had  hoped  for,  but  still  magnificently 
well.  Never  had  men  worked  harder,  never  fought 
more  desperately  for  success.     There  were  our  two 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  299 

dumps,  pyramids  of  gold-permeated  dirt  at  whose 
value  we  could  only  guess.  We  had  wrested  our 
treasure  from  the  icy  grip  of  the  eternal  frost.  Now 
it  remained — and  O,  the  sweetness  of  it — to  glean 
the  harvest  of  our  toil. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"  The  water's  beginning  to  run,  boys,"  said  the  Half- 
breed.  "  A  few  more  days  and  we'll  be  able  to  start 
sluicing." 

The  news  was  like  a  flood  of  sunshine  to  us.  For 
days  we  had  been  fixing  up  the  boxes  and  getting 
ever}'thing  in  readiness.  The  sun  beat  strongly  on 
the  snow,  which  almost  visibly  seemed  to  retreat  be- 
fore it.  The  dazzlingly  white  surface  was  crisp  and 
flaky,  and  around  the  tree  boles  curving  hollows  had 
formed.  Here  and  there  brown  earth  peered  nakedly 
through.  Every  day  the  hillside  runnels  grew  in 
strength. 

We  were  working  at  the  mouth  of  a  creek  down 
which  ran  a  copious  little  stream  all  through  the 
Springtime.  We  tapped  it  some  distance  above  us, 
and  ran  part  of  it  along  our  line  of  sluice-boxes. 
These  boxes  went  between  our  two  dumps,  so  that  it 
was  easy  to  shovel  in  from  both  sides.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  convenient. 

At  last,  after  a  day  of  hot  sunshine,  we  found  quite 
a  freshet  of  water  coming  down  the  boxes,  leaping 
and  dancing  in  the  morning  light.  I  remember  how 
I  threw  in  the  first  shovelful  of  dirt,  and  how  good 
it  was  to  see  the  bright  stream  discolour  as  our  friend 
the  water  began  his  magic  work.  For  three  days  we 
shovelled  in,  and  on  the  fourth  we  made  a  clean-up. 

300 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  301 

"  I  guess  it's  time,"  said  Jim,  "  or  those  riffles  will 
be  gettin'  choked  up." 

And,  sure  enough,  when  we  ran  off  the  water  there 
were  some  of  them  almost  full  of  the  yellow  metal, 
wet  and  shiny,  gloriously  agleam  in  the  morning  light. 

"There's  ten  thousand  dollars  if  there's  an  ounce," 
said  the  Company's  man,  and  the  weigh-up  proved  he 
was  right.  So  the  gold  was  packed  in  two  long  buck- 
skin pokes  and  sent  into  town  to  be  deposited  in  the 
bank. 

Day  after  day  we  went  on  shovelling  in,  and  about 
twice  a  week  we  made  a  clean-up.  The  month  of 
May  was  half  over  when  we  had  only  a  third  of  our 
dirt  run  through  the  boxes.  We  were  terribly  afraid 
of  the  water  failing  us,  and  worked  harder  than 
ever.  Indeed,  it  was  difficult  to  tell  when  to  leave 
off.  The  nights  were  never  dark  now;  the  daylight 
was  over  twenty  hours  in  duration.  The  sun  de- 
scribed an  ellipse,  rising  a  little  east  of  north  and 
setting  a  little  west  of  north.  We  shovelled  in  till  we 
were  too  exhausted  to  lift  another  ounce.  Then  we 
lay  down  in  our  clothes  and  slept  as  soon  as  we 
touched  the  pillow. 

"  There's  eighty  thousand  to  our  credit  in  the  bank, 
and  only  a  third  of  our  dump's  gone.  Hooray, 
boys!  "  said  the  Prodigal. 

About  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  birds  began 
to  sing,  and  the  sunset  glow  had  not  faded  from  the 
sky  ere  the  sunrise  quickened  it  with  life  once  more. 
Who  that  has  lived  in  the  North  will  ever  forget  the 
charm,  the  witchery  of  those  midnight  skies,  where 


302  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

the  fires  of  the  sun  are  banked  and  never  cold? 
Surely,  long  after  all  else  Is  forgotten,  will  linger  the 
memory  of  those  mystic  nights  with  all  their  haunting 
spell  of  weird,  disconsolate  solitude. 

One  afternoon  I  was  working  on  the  dump,  Intent 
on  shovelling  in  as  much  dirt  as  possible  before  sup- 
per, when,  on  looking  up,  who  should  greet  me  but 
Locasto.  Since  our  last  interview  in  town  I  had  not 
seen  him,  and,  somehow,  this  sudden  sight  of  him 
came  as  a  kind  of  a  shock.  Yet  the  manner  of  the 
man  as  he  approached  me  was  hearty  in  the  extreme. 
He  held  out  his  great  hand  to  me,  and,  as  I  had  no 
desire  to  antagonise  him,  I  gave  him  my  own. 

He  was  riding.  His  big,  handsome  face  was 
bronzed,  his  black  eyes  clear  and  sparkling,  his  white 
teeth  gleamed  like  mammoth  ivory.  He  certainly 
was  a  dashing,  dominant  figure  of  a  man,  and.  In 
spite  of  myself,  I  admired  him. 

His  manner  In  his  salutation  was  cordial,  even  win- 
ning. 

"  I've  just  been  visiting  some  of  my  creek  prop- 
erties," he  said.  "  I  heard  you  fellows  had  made 
a  good  strike,  and  I  thought  I'd  come  down  and  con- 
gratulate you.     It  Is  pretty  good.  Isn't  It?  " 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "not  quite  so  good  as  we  ex- 
pected, but  we'll  all  have  a  tidy  sum." 

"  I'm  glad.  Well,  I  suppose  you'll  go  outside  this 
Fall." 

"  No,  I  think  I'll  stay  in.  You  see,  we've  the  Gold 
Hill  property,  which  looks  promising;  and  then  we 
have  two  claims  on  Ophlr." 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 


303 


"Oh,  Ophir!  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  take  a 
fortune  out  of  Ophir.  I  bought  a  claim  there  the 
other  day.  The  man  pestered  me,  so  I  gave  him 
five  thousand  for  it,  just  to  get  rid  of  him.  It's 
eight  below." 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  that's  the  claim  I  staked  and  got 
beaten  out  of." 

"  You  don't  say  so.  Well,  now,  that's  too  bad.  I 
bought  it  from  a  man  named  Spankiller;  his  brother's 
a  clerk  in  the  gold  office.  Tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll 
let  you  have  it  for  the  five  thousand  I  gave  for  it." 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  I  don't  think  I  want  it  now." 

"All  right;  think  it  over,  anyway.  If  you  should 
change  your  mind,  let  me  know.  Well,  I  must  go. 
I've  got  to  get  into  town  to-night.  That's  my  mule- 
train  back  there  on  the  trail.  I've  got  pretty  nearly 
ten  thousand  ounces  over  there." 

I  looked  and  saw  the  mules  with  the  gold-packs 
slung  over  their  backs.  There  were  four  men  to 
guard  them,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  one  of 
these  men  I  recognised  the  little  wizened  figure  of  the 
Worm. 

I  shivered. 

"  Yes,  I've  done  pretty  well,"  he  continued;  "  but 
it  don't  make  any  difference.  I  spend  it  as  fast  as  I 
get  it.  A  month  ago  I  didn't  have  enough  ready 
cash  to  pay  my  cigar  bill,  yet  I  could  have  gone  to 
the  bank  and  borrowed  a  hundred  thousand.  It  was 
there  in  the  dump.  Oh,  it'^s  a  rum  business  this 
mining.     Well,  good-bye." 

He  was  turning  to  go  when,  suddenly,  he  stopped. 


304  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  saw  a  friend  of  yours  before 
I  left.  No  need  to  mention  names,  you  lucky  dog. 
When's  the  big  thing  coming  off?  Well,  I  must  con- 
gratulate you  again.  She  looks  sweeter  than  ever. 
By-by." 

He  was  off,  leaving  a  very  sinister  impression  on 
my  mind.  In  his  parting  smile  there  was  a  trace  of 
mockery  that  gravely  disquieted  me.  I  had  thought 
much  of  Berna  during  the  past  few  months,  but  as  the 
gold  fever  took  hold  of  me  I  put  her  more  and  more 
from  my  mind.  I  told  myself  that  all  this  struggle 
was  for  her.  In  the  thought  that  she  was  safe  I 
calmed  all  anxious  fear.  Sometimes  by  not  thinking 
so  much  of  dear  ones,  one  can  be  more  thoughtful  of 
them.  So  it  was  with  me.  I  knew  that  all  my  con- 
centration of  effort  was  for  her  sake,  and  would  bring 
her  nearer  to  me.  Yet  at  Locasto's  words  all  my  old 
longing  and  heartache  vehemently  resurged. 

In  spite  of  myself,  I  was  the  prey  of  a  growing  un- 
easiness. Things  seemed  vastly  different,  now  suc- 
cess had  come  to  me.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of 
her  working  in  that  ambiguous  restaurant,  rubbing 
shoulders  with  its  unspeakable  habitues.  I  wondered 
how  I  had  ever  deceived  myself  into  thinking  it  was 
all  right.  I  began  to  worry,  so  that  I  knew  only  a 
trip  into  Dawson  would  satisfy  me.  Accordingly,  I 
hired  a  big  Swede  to  take  my  place  at  the  shovel, 
and  set  out  once  more  on  the  hillside  trail  for  town. 


CHAPTER  XX 

I  FOUND  the  town  more  animated  than  ever,  the 
streets  more  populous,  the  gaiety  more  unrestrained. 
Everywhere  were  flaunting  signs  of  a  plethoric  wealth. 
The  anxious  Cheechako  had  vanished  from  the  scene, 
and  the  victorious  miner  masqueraded  in  his  place. 
He  swaggered  along  in  the  glow  of  the  Spring  sun- 
shine, a  picture  of  perfect  manhood,  bronzed  and  lean 
and  muscular.  He  was  brimming  over  with  the  ex- 
uberance of  health.  He  had  come  into  town  to 
"live"  things,  to  transmute  this  yellow  dust  into 
happmess,  to  taste  the  wine  of  life,  to  know  the  lips 
of  flame. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  Man  with  the  Poke.  He 
was  King.  The  sheer  animalism  of  him  overflowed 
in  midnight  roysterings,  in  bacchanalian  revels,  in 
debauches  among  the  human  debris  of  the  tenderloin. 

Every  one  was  waiting  for  him,  to  fleece  him,  rob 
him,  strip  him.  It  was  also  the  day  of  the  man  be- 
hind the  bar,  of  the  gambler,  of  the  harpy. 

My  strange,  formless  fears  for  Berna  were  soon 
set  at  rest.  She  was  awaiting  me.  She  looked  bet- 
ter than  I  had  ever  seen  her,  and  she  welcomed  me 
with  an  eager  delight  that  kindled  me  to  rapture. 

"  Just  think  of  it,"  she  said,  "  only  two  weeks,  and 
we'll  be  together  for  always.  It  seems  too  good  to 
be  true.     Oh,   my  dear,   how  can   I   ever  love  you 

305 


3o6  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 


enough?     How  happy  we  are  going  to  be,   aren't 
we?" 

"  We're  going  to  be  happier  than  any  two  people 
ever  were  before,"  I  assured  her. 

We  crossed  the  Yul^on  to  the  green  glades  of 
North  Dawson,  and  there,  on  a  little  rise,  we  sat 
down,  side  by  side.  How  I  wish  I  could  put  into 
words  the  joy  that  filled  my  heart !  Never  was  lad  so 
happy  as  I.  I  spoke  but  little,  for  love's  silences  are 
sweeter  than  all  words.  Well,  well  I  mind  me  how 
she  looked:  just  like  a  picture,  her  hands  clasped  on 
her  lap,  her  eyes  star-bright,  angel-sweet,  mother- 
tender.  From  time  to  time  she  would  give  me  a 
glance  so  full  of  trust  and  love  that  my  heart  would 
leap  to  her,  and  wave  on  wave  of  passionate  tender- 
ness come  sweeping  over  me. 

It  may  be  there  was  something  humble  in  my  stint- 
less adoration;  it  may  be  I  was  like  a  child  for  the 
pleasure  of  her  nearness;  it  may  be  my  eyes  told 
all  too  well  of  the  fire  that  burned  within  me,  but  O, 
the  girl  was  kind,  gentler  than  forgiveness,  sweeter 
than  all  heaven.  Caressingly  she  touched  my  hair. 
I  kissed  her  fingers,  kissed  them  again  and  again;  and 
then  she  lifted  my  hand  to  her  lips,  and  I  felt  her  kiss 
fall  upon  it.  How  wondrously  I  tingled  at  the  touch. 
My  hand  seemed  mine  no  longer — a  consecrated 
thing.     Proud,  happy  me  ! 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  "doesn't  it  seem  as  if  we 
were  dreaming?  You  know,  I  always  thought  it  was 
a  dream,  and  now  it's  coming  true.  You'll  take  me 
away  from  this  place,  won't  you,  boy? — far,  far  away. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  307 

I'll  tell  you  now,  dear,  I've  borne  It  all  for  your  sake, 
but  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it  any  longer.  I  would 
rather  die  than  sink  In  the  mire,  and  yet  you  can't 
Imagine  how  this  life  affects  one.  It's  sad,  sad,  but  I 
don't  get  shocked  at  things  in  the  way  I  used  to. 
You  know,  I  sometimes  think  a  girl,  no  matter  how 
good,  sweet,  modest  to  begin  with,  placed  in  such  sur- 
roundings could  fall  gradually." 

I  agreed  with  her.  Too  well  I  knew  I  was  be- 
coming calloused  to  the  evils  around  me.  Such  was 
the  insidious  corruption  of  the  gold-camp,  I  now  re- 
garded with  indifference  things  that  a  year  ago  I 
would  have  shrunk  from  with  disgust. 

'.'  Well,  it  will  be  all  over  very  soon,  won't  it,  dear? 
I  don't  know  what  I'd  have  done  if  It  hadn't  been  for 
the  rough  miners.  They've  been  so  kind  to  me. 
When  they  saw  I  was  straight  and  honest  they  couldn't 
be  good  enough.  They  shielded  me  In  every  way, 
and  kept  back  the  other  kind  of  men.  Even  the 
women  have  been  my  friends  and  helped  me." 

She  looked  at  me  archly. 

"  And,  you  know,  I've  had  ever  so  many  offers  of 
marriage,  too,  from  honest,  rough,  kindly  men — and 
I've  refused  them  ever  so  gracefully." 

"  Has  Locasto  ever  made  any  more  overtures?  " 

Her  face  grew  grave. 

*'  Yes,  about  a  month  ago  he  besieged  me,  gave  me 
no  rest,  made  all  kinds  of  proposals  and  promises. 
He  wanted  to  divorce  his  '  outside  '  wife  and  marry 
me.  He  wanted  to  settle  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
on  me.     He  tried  ever^-thing  in  his  power  to  force 


3o8  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

me  to  his  will.  Then,  when  he  saw  it  was  no 
use,  he  turned  round  and  begged  me  to  let  him  be  my 
friend.  He  spoke  so  nicely  of  you.  He  said  he 
would  help  us  in  any  way  he  could.  He's  every- 
thing that's  kind  to  me  now.  He  can't  do  enough 
for  me.     Yet,  somehow,  I  don't  trust  him." 

"  Well,  my  precious,"  I  assured  her,  '*  all  danger, 
doubt,  despair,  will  soon  be  over.  Locasto  and  the 
rest  of  them  will  be  as  shadows,  never  to  haunt  my 
little  girl  again.  The  Great,  Black  North  will  fade 
away,  will  dissolve  into  the  land  of  sunshine  and 
flowers  and  song.     You  will  forget  it." 

"The  Great  Black  North. — I  will  never  forget 
it,  and  I  will  always  bless  it.  It  has  given  me  my 
love,  the  best  love  in  all  the  world." 

"  O  my  darling,  my  Life,  I'll  take  you  away  from 
it  all  soon,  soon.  We'll  go  to  my  home,  to  Garry, 
to  Mother.  They  will  love  you  as  I  love 
you." 

"  I'm  sure  I  will  love  them.  What  you  have  told 
me  of  them  makes  them  seem  very  real  to  me.  Will 
you  not  be  ashamed  of  me?  " 

"  I  will  be  proud,  proud  of  you,  my  girl." 

Ah,  would  I  not !  I  looked  at  that  flower-like  face 
the  sunshine  glorified  so,  the  pretty,  bright  hair  fall- 
ing away  from  her  low  brow  in  little  waves,  the  lily 
throat,  the  delicately  patrician  features,  the  proud 
poise  of  her  head.  Who  would  not  have  been  proud 
of  her?  She  awoke  all  that  was  divine  in  me.  I 
looked  as  one  might  look  on  a  vision,  scarce  able  to 
believe  it  real. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  309 

Suddenly  she  pointed  excitedly. 

"  Look,  dear,  look  at  the  rainbow.  Isn't  it  won- 
derful?    Isn't  it  beautiful?" 

I  gazed  in  rapt  admiration.  Across  the  river  a 
shower  had  fallen,  and  the  clouds,  clearing  away 
abruptly,  had  left  there  a  twin  rainbow  of  matchless 
perfection.  Its  double  arch  was  poised  as  accurately 
over  the  town  as  if  it  had  been  painted  there.  Each 
hoop  was  flawless  in  form,  lovely  in  hue,  tenderly 
luminous,  exquisite  in  purity.  Never  had  I  seen  the 
double  iris  so  immaculate  in  colouring,  and,  with  its 
bases  resting  on  the  river,  It  curved  over  the  gold-born 
city  like  a  frame  of  ethereal  beauty. 

"  Does  it  not  seem,  dear,  like  an  answer  to  our 
prayer,  an  omen  of  good  hope,  a  promise  for  the 
future?" 

"  Yes,  beloved,  our  future,  yours  and  mine.  The 
clouds  are  rolling  away.  All  is  bright  with  sunshine 
once  again,  and  God  sends  His  rainbow  to  cheer  and 
comfort  us.  It  will  not  be  long  now.  On  the  first 
day  of  June,  beloved,  I  will  come  to  you,  and  we 
will  be  made  man  and  wife.  You  will  be  waiting  for 
me,  will  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  waiting  ever  so  eagerly,  my  lover,  count- 
ing every  hour,  every  minute." 

I  kissed  her  passionately,  and  we  held  each  other 
tightly  for  a  moment.  I  saw  come  into  her  eyes  that 
look  which  comes  but  once  Into  the  eyes  of  a  maid, 
that  look  of  ineffable  self-surrender,  of  passionate 
abandonment.  Life  Is  niggard  of  such  moments,  yet 
can  our  lives  be  summed  up  in  them. 


3IO  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

She  rested  her  head  on  my  shoulder;  her  lips  lay 
on  mine,  and  they  moved  faintly. 

"  Yes,  lover,  yes,  the  first  of  June.  Don't  fail  me, 
honey,  don't  fail  me." 

We  parted,  buoyant  with  hope,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
joy.  She  was  for  me,  this  beautiful,  tender  girl, 
for  me.  And  the  time  was  nigh  when  she  should 
be  mine,  mine  to  adore  until  the  end.  Always  would 
she  be  by  my  side;  daily  could  I  plot  and  plan  to 
give  her  pleasure;  every  hour  by  word  and  look 
and  act  could  I  lavish  on  her  the  exhaustless  meas- 
ure of  my  love.  Ah !  life  would  be  too  short  for  me. 
Could  aught  in  this  petty  purblind  existence  of  ours 
redeem  it  and  exalt  it  so:  her  love,  this  pure  sweet 
girl's,  and  mine.  Let  nations  grapple,  let  Mam- 
mon triumph,  let  pestilence  6'erwhelm;  what  matter, 

we  love,  we  love.     O  proud,  happy  me ! 

****** 

I  got  back  to  the  claim.  Everything  was  going 
merrily,  but  I  felt  little  desire  to  resume  my  toil.  I 
was  strangely  wearied,  worn  out  somehow.  Yet  I 
took  up  my  shovel  again  with  a  body  that  rebelled  in 
every  tissue.  Never  had  I  felt  like  this  before. 
Something  was  wrong  with  me.  I  was  weak.  At 
night  I  sweated  greatly.     I  cared  not  to  eat. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Prodigal,  "  it's  all  over  but  the 
shouting.  From  my  calculations  we've  cleaned  up 
two  hundred  and  six  thousand  dollars.  That's  a 
hundred  and  three  between  us  four.  It's  cost  us 
about  three  to  get  out  the  stuff;  so  there  will  be, 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  311 

roughly  speaking,  about  twenty-five  thousand  for 
each  of  us." 

How  jubilant  every  one  was  looking — every  one 
but  me.  Somehow  I  felt  as  if  money  didn't  matter 
just  then,  for  I  was  sick,  sick. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  "  said  the  Prodigal, 
staring  at  me  curiously.      "  You  look  like  a  ghost." 

"I  feel  like  one,  too,"  I  answered.  "  I'm  afraid 
I'm  in  for  a  bad  spell.  I  want  to  lie  down  awhile, 
boys  .  .  .  I'm  tired.  .  .  .  The  first  of  June,  I've 
got  a  date  on  the  first  of  June.  I  must  keep  it,  I 
must.  .  .  .  Don't  let  me  sleep  too  long,  boys.  I 
mustn't  fail.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  The 
first  of  June.  .  .  ." 

Alas,  on  the  first  of  June  I  lay  in  the  hospital,  rav- 
ing and  tossing  in  the  clutches  of  typhoid  fever. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

I  WAS  lying  in  bed,  and  a  heavy  weight  was  pressing 
on  me,  so  that,  in  spite  of  my  struggles,  I  could  not 
move.  I  was  hot,  insufferably  hot.  The  blood  ran 
boiling  through  my  veins.  My  flesh  was  burning 
up.  My  brain  would  not  work.  It  was  all  cob- 
webs, murky  and  stale  as  a  charnel-house.  Yet 
at  times  were  strange  illuminations,  full  of  terror 
and  despair.  Blood-red  lights  and  purple  shad- 
ows alternated  in  my  vision.  Then  came  the 
dreams. 

JjC  ^  «|C  S|C  5jC  JfC 

There  was  always  Berna.  Through  a  mass  of 
grimacing,  greed-contorted  faces  gradually  there 
formed  and  lingered  her  sweet  and  pensive  one.  We 
were  in  a  strange  costume,  she  and  I.  It  seemed  like 
that  of  the  early  Georges.  We  were  running  away, 
fleeing  from  some  one.  For  her  sake  a  great  fear 
and  anxiety  possessed  me.  We  were  eloping,  I 
fancied. 

There  was  a  marsh  to  cross,  a  hideous  quagmire, 
and  our  pursuers  were  close.  We  started  over  the 
quaking  ground,  then,  suddenly,  I  saw  her  sink.  I 
rushed  to  aid  her,  and  I,  too,  sank.  We  were  to  our 
necks  in  the  soft  ooze,  and  there  on  the  bank,  watch- 
ing us,  was  the  foremost  of  our  hunters.  He  laughed 
at  our  struggles;  he  mocked  us;  he  rejoiced  to  see  us 

312 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  313 

drown.     And   in   my   dream    the    face   of   the   man 
seemed  strangely  like  Locasto. 

J|C  'l^  'is  ^j^  *!*  ^P 

We  were  in  a  bower  of  roses,  she  and  I.  It  was 
still  further  back  in  history.  We  seemed  to  be  in 
the  garden  of  a  palace.  I  was  in  doublet  and.  hose, 
and  she  wore  a  long,  flowing  kirtle.  The  air  was 
full  of  fragrance  and  sunshine.  Birds  were  singing. 
A  fountain  scattered  a  shower  of  glittering  diamonds 
on  the  breeze.  She  was  sitting  on  the  grass,  while  I 
reclined  by  her  side,  my  head  lying  on  her  lap.  Above 
me  I  could  see  her  face  like  a  lily  bending  over  me. 
With  dainty  fingers  she  crumpled  a  rose  and  let  the 
petals  snow  down  on  me. 

Then,  suddenly,  I  was  seized,  torn  away  from  her 
by  men  in  black,  who  roughly  choked  her  screams. 
I  was  dragged  off,  thrown  into  a  foul  cell,  left  many 
days.  Then,  one  night,  I  was  dragged  forth  and 
brought  before  a  grim  tribunal  in  a  hall  of  gloom  and 
horror.  They  pronounced  my  doom — Death.  The 
chief  Inquisitor  raised  his  mask,  and  in  those  gloating 
features  I  recognised — Locasto. 

*  !(:  *  *  *  * 

Again  it  seemed  as  if  I  were  still  further  back  in 
history,  in  some  city  under  the  Roman  rule.  I  was 
returning  from  the  Temple  with  my  bride.  How 
fair  and  fresh  and  beautiful  she  was,  garlanded 
with  flowers  and  radiantly  happy.  Again  it  was 
Berna. 

Suddenly  there  are  shouts,  the  beating  of  drums, 
the  clash  of  cymbals.     The  great  Governor  of  the 


314  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Province  is  coming.  He  passes  with  his  retinue. 
Suddenly  he  catches  sight  of  her  whom  I  have  but 
newly  wed.  He  stops.  He  asks  who  is  the  maid. 
They  tell  him.  He  looks  at  me  with  haughty  con- 
tempt. He  gives  a  sign.  His  servants  seize  her  and 
drag  her  screaming  away.  I  try  to  follow,  to  kill 
him.  I,  too,  am  seized,  overpowered.  They  bind 
me,  put  out  my  eyes.  The  Roman  sees  them  do  it. 
He  laughs  as  the  red-hot  iron  kisses  my  eye-balls.  He 
mocks  me,  telling  me  what  a  dainty  feast  awaits  him 
in  my  bride.     Again  I  see  Locasto. 

^If  ^tf  ^tf  ^f  slf  ^f 

Then  came  another  phase  of  my  delirium,  in  which 
I  stnjggled  to  get  to  her.  She  was  waiting  for  me, 
wanting  me,  breaking  her  heart  at  my  delay.  O, 
Berna,  my  soul,  my  life,  since  the  beginning  of  things 
we  were  fated.  'Tis  no  flesh  love,  but  something 
deeper,  something  that  has  its  source  at  the  very  core 
of  being.  It  is  not  for  your  sweet  face,  your  gentle 
spirit,  my  own,  that  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  all  else : 
it  is  because — you  are  you.  If  all  the  world  were  to 
turn  against  you,  flout  you,  stone  you,  then  would  I 
rush  to  your  side,  shield  you,  die  with  you.  If  you 
were  attainted  with  leprosy,  I  would  enter  the  lazar- 
house  for  your  sake. 

"  O  Berna,  I  must  see  you,  I  must,  I  must.  Let 
me  go  to  her  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  dear!  She's  calling 
me.  She's  in  trouble.  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  let 
me  go  .  .  .  let  me  go,  I  say.  .  .  .  Curse  you,  I  will. 
She's  in  trouble.  You  can't  hold  me.  I'm  stronger 
than  you  all  when  she  calls.  .  .  .  Let  me  ...  let 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  315 

me.  .  .  .  Oh,  oh,  oh  .  .  .  you're  hurting  me  so. 
I'm  weak,  yes,  weak  as  a  baby.  .  .  .  Berna,  my  child, 
my  poor  little  girl,  I  can  do  nothing.  There's  a 
mountain  weighing  me  down.  There's  a  slab  of  gold 
on  my  chest.  They're  burning  me  up.  My  veins  are 
on  fire.  I  can't  com.e.  ...  I  can't,  dear.  .  .  .  I'm 
tired.   .  .  ." 

Then  the  fever,  the  ravings,  the  wild  threshing  of 
my  pillow,  all  passed  away,  and  I  was  left  limp,  weak, 
helpless,  resigned  to  my  fate. 

I  was  on  the  sunny  slope  of  convalescence.  The 
Prodigal  had  remained  with  me  as  long  as  I  was  in 
danger,  but  now  that  I  had  turned  the  corner,  he  had 
gone  back  to  the  creeks,  so  that  I  was  left  with 
only  my  thoughts  for  company.  As  I  turned  and 
twisted  on  my  narrow  cot  it  seemed  as  if  the  time 
would  never  pass.  All  I  wanted  was  to  get  better 
fast,  and  to  get  out  again.  Then,  I  thought,  I  would 
marry  Berna  and  go  "  outside."  I  was  sick  of  the 
country,  of  everything. 

I  was  lying  thinking  over  these  things,  when  I 
became  aware  that  the  man  in  the  cot  to  the  right 
was  trying  to  attract  my  attention.  He  had  been 
brought  in  that  very  morning,  said  to  have  been 
kicked  by  a  horse.  One  of  his  ribs  was  broken,  and 
his  face  badly  smashed.  He  was  in  great  pain,  but 
quite  conscious,  and  he  was  making  stealthy  motions 
to  me. 

"  Say,  mate,"  he  said,  "  I  piped  you  off  soon's  I 
set  me  lamps  on  you.      Don't  youse  know  me?  " 

I  looked  at  the  bandaged  face  wonderingly. 


3i6  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Don't  you  spot  de  man  dat  near  let  youse  down 
de  shaft?" 

Then,  with  a  great  start,  I  saw  it  was  the  Worm. 

"  'Taint  no  horse  done  me  up,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper;  "  'twas  a  man.  You  know  de  man,  de 
worst  devil  in  all  Alaska,  Black  Jack.  Bad  luck  to 
him !  He  knocked  me  down  and  give  me  de  leather. 
But  I'm  goin'  to  get  even  some  day.  I'm  just  laying 
for  him.  I  wouldn't  be  in  his  shoes  for  de  richest 
claim  in  de  Klondike." 

The  man's  eyes  glittered  vengefully  between  the 
white  bandages. 

'  "  'Twas  all  on  account  of  de  little  girl  he  done  it. 
You  know  de  girl  I  mean.  Black  Jack's  dead  stuck 
on  her,  an'  de  furder  she  stands  him  off  de  more 
set  he  is  to  get  her.  Youse  don't  know  dat  man. 
He's  never  had  de  cold  mit  yet." 

"  Tell  me  what's  the  matter,  for  Heaven's  sake." 

"  Well,  when  youse  didn't  come,  de  little  girl  she 
got  worried.  I  used  to  be  doin'  chores  round  de 
restaurant,  an'  she  asks  me  to  take  a  note  up  to  you. 
So  I  said  I  would.  But  I  got  on  a  drunk  dat  day, 
an'  for  a  week  after  I  didn't  draw  a  sober  breath. 
When  I  gets  around  again  I  told  her  I'd  seen  you 
an'  given  you  de  note  an'  you  was  comin'  in  right 
away." 

"  Heaven  forgive  you  for  that." 

"  Yep,  dat's  what  I  say  now.  But  it's  all  too  late. 
Well,  a  week  went  on  an'  you  never  showed  up,  an' 
meantime  Locasto  was  pesterin'  her  cruel.  She  got 
mighty  peaked  like,  pale  as  a  ghost,  an'  I  could  see 


Then,  as  I  hung  half  in,  half  out  of  the  win- 
dow, he  clutched  me  by  the  throat 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  317 

she  cried  most  all  her  nights.  Den  she  gives  me 
anudder  note.  She  gives  me  a  hundred  dollars  to 
take  dat  note  to  you.  I  said  she  could  lay  on  me 
dis  time.  I  was  de  hurry-up  kid,  an'  I  starts  off. 
But  Black  Jack  must  have  cottoned  on,  for  he  meets 
me  back  of  de  town  an'  taxes  me  wid.takin'  a  message. 
Den  he  sets  on  me  like  a  wild  beast  an'  does  me  up 
good  and  proper.      But  I'll  fix  him  yet." 

"  Where  are  the  notes?  "  I  cried. 

"  In  de  pocket  of  me  coat.  Tell  de  nurse  to  fetch 
in  me  clothes,  an'  I'll  give  dem  to  youse." 

The  nurse  brought  the  clothes,  but  the  little  man 
was  too  sore  to  move. 

"  Feel  in  de  inside  pocket." 

There  were  the  notes,  folded  very  small,  and  writ- 
ten in  pencil.  There  was  a  strange  faintness  at  my 
heart,  and  my  fingers  trembled  as  I  opened  them. 
Fear,  fear  was  clutching  me,  compressing  me  in  an 
agonising  grip. 

Here  was  the  first. 

"  My  Darling  Boy:  Why  didn't  you  come?  I  was  all 
ready  for  you.  O,  it  was  such  a  terrible  disappointment. 
I've  cried  myself  to  sleep  every  night  since.  Has  anything 
happened  to  you,  dear?  For  Heaven's  sake  write  or  send 
a  message.     I  can't  bear  the  suspense. 

"  Your  loving 

"Berna." 

Blankly,  dully,  almost  mechanically,  I  read  the 
second. 


3i8  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

"O,  come,  my  dear,  at  once.  I'm  in  serious  danger.  He's 
grown  desperate.  Swears  if  he  can't  get  me  by  fair  means 
he'll  have  me  by  foul.  I'm  terribly  afraid.  Why  ar'n't  you 
here  to  protect  me?  Why  have  you  failed  me?  O,  my 
darling,  have  pity  on  your  poor  little  girl.  Come  quickly 
before  it  is  too  late." 

It  was  unsigned. 

Heavens !  I  must  go  to  her  at  once.  I  was  well 
enough.  I  was  all  right  again.  Why  would  they 
not  let  me  go  to  her?  I  would  crawl  on  my  hands 
and  knees  if  need  be.     I  was  strong,  so  strong  now. 

Ha  !  there  were  the  Worm's  clothes.  It  was  after 
midnight.  The  nurse  had  just  finished  her  rounds. 
All  was  quiet  in  the  ward. 

Dizzily  I  rose  and  slipped  into  the  frayed  and 
greasy  garments.  There  were  the  hospital  slippers. 
I  must  wear  them.     Never  mind  a  hat. 

I  was  out  in  the  street.  I  shuffled  along,  and  peo- 
ple stared  at  me,  but  no  one  delayed  me.  I  was  at 
the  restaurant  now.  She  wasn't  there.  Ah!  the 
cabin  on  the  hill. 

I  was  weaker  than  I  had  thought.  Once  or  twice 
in  a  half-fainting  condition  I  stopped  and  steadied 
myself  by  holding  a  sapling  tree.  Then  the  awful 
intuition  of  her  danger  possessed  me,  and  gave  me 
fresh  strength.  Many  times  I  stumbled,  cutting  my- 
self on  the  sharp  boulders.  Once  I  lay  for  a  long 
time,  half-unconscious,  wondering  if  I  would  ever  be 
able  to  rise.  I  reeled  like  a  drunken  man.  The  way 
seemed  endless,  yet  stumbling,  staggering  on,  there 
was  the  cabin  at  last. 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  319 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  front  room.  Some  one 
was  at  home  at  all  events.  Only  a  few  steps  more, 
yet  once  again  I  fell.  I  remember  striking  my  face 
against  a  sharp  rock.  Then,  on  my  hands  and  knees, 
I  crawled  to  the  door. 

I  raised  myself  and  hammered  with  clenched  fists. 
There  was  silence  within,  then  an  agitated  move- 
ment. I  knocked  again.  Was  the  door  ever 
going  to  be  opened?  At  last  it  swung  inward, 
with  a  suddenness  that  precipitated  me  inside  the 
room. 

The  Madam  was  standing  over  me  where  I  had 
fallen.  At  sight  of  me  she  screamed.  Surprise, 
fear,  rage,  struggled  for  mastery  on  her  face.  "  It's 
him,"  she  cried,  "him."  Peering  over  her  shoulder, 
with  ashy,  horrified  face,  I  saw  her  trembling  hus- 
band. 

"  Berna,"  I  gasped  hoarsely.  "Where  is  she?  I 
want  Berna.  What  are  you  doing  to  her,  you  dev- 
ils? Give  her  to  me.  She's  mine,  my  promised 
bride.     Let  me  go  to  her,  I  say." 

The  woman  barred  the  way. 

All  at  once  I  realised  that  the  air  was  heavy  with 
a  strange  odour,  the  odour  of  chloroform.  Frenzied 
with  fear,  I  rushed  forward. 

Then  the  Amazon  roused  herself.  With  a  cry  of 
rage  she  struck  me.  Savagely  both  of  them  came 
for  me.  I  struggled,  I  fought;  but,  weak  as  I  was, 
they  carried  me  before  them  and  threw  me  from  the 
door.  I  heard  the  lock  shoot;  I  was  outside;  I  was 
impotent.     Yet  behind  those  log  walls.   .   .   .  Oh,  it 


320  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

was  horrible !  horrible !  Could  such  things  be  in 
God's  world?     And  I  could  do  nothing. 

I  was  strong  once  more,  I  ran  round  to  the  back 
of  the  cabin.  She  was  in  there,  I  knew.  I  rushed 
at  the  window  and  threw  myself  against  it.  The 
storm  frame  had  not  been  taken  off.  Crash !  I 
burst  through  both  sheets  of  glass.  I  was  cruelly 
cut,  bleeding  in  a  dozen  places,  yet  I  was  half  into 
the  room.  There,  in  the  dirty,  drab  light,  I  saw 
a  face,  the  fiendish,  rage-distorted  face  of  my  dream. 
It  was  Locasto. 

He  turned  at  the  crash.  With  a  curse  he  came  at 
me.  Then,  as  I  hung  half  in,  half  out  of  the  window, 
he  clutched  me  by  the  throat.  Using  all  his  strength, 
he  raised  me  further  into  the  room,  then  he  hurled 
me  ruthlessly  out  onto  the  rocks  outside. 

I  rose,  reeling,  covered  with  blood,  blind,  sick, 
speechless.  Weakly  I  staggered  to  the  window.  My 
strength  was  leaving  me.  "  O  God,  sustain  me ! 
Help  me  to  save  her." 

Then  I  felt  the  world  go  blank.  I  swayed;  I 
clutched  at  the  walls;  I  fell. 

There  I  lay  in  a  ghastly,  unconscious  heap. 

I  had  lost! 


BOOK  IV 
THE   VORTEX 


He  burned  a  hole  in  the  frozen  muck; 
He  scratched  the  icy  mould; 
And  there  in  six-foot  dirt  he  struck 
A  sack  or  so  of  gold. 

He  burned  a  hole  in  the  Decalogue, 
And  then  it  came  about — 
For  Fortune's  only  a  lousy  rogue — 
His  "  pocket  "  petered  out. 

And  lo!  it  was  but  a  year  all  told, 
When  there  in  the  shadow  grim, 
But  six  feet  deep  in  the  icy  mould, 
They  burned  a  hole  for  him. 

_"  The  Yukoner." 


CHAPTER  I 

"  No,  no,  I'm  all  right.  Really  I  am.  Please  leave 
me  alone.  You  want  me  to  laugh?  Ha!  Ha! 
There !     Is  that  all  right  now?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  all  right.  It's  very  far  from  all 
right,  my  boy;  and  this  is  where  you  and  your  little 
uncle  here  are  going  to  have  a  real  heart  to  heart 
talk." 

It  was  in  the  big  cabin  on  Gold  Hill,  and  the 
Prodigal  was  addressing  me.     He  went  on: 

"  Now,  look  here,  kid,  when  it  comes  to  express- 
ing my  feelings  I'm  in  the  kindergarten  class;  when 
it  comes  to  handing  out  the  high-toned  dope  I 
drop  my  cue  every  time;  but  when  I'm  needed  to 
do  the  solid  pardner  stunt  then  you  don't  need  to 
holler  for  me — I'm  there.  Well,  I'm  giving  you 
a  straight  hne  of  talk.  Ever  since  the  start  I've 
taken  a  strong  notion  to  you.  You've  always  been 
ace-high  with  me,  and  there  never  will  come  the  day 
when  you  can't  eat  on  my  meal-ticket.  We  tackled 
the  Trail  of  Trouble  together.  You  were  always 
wanting  to  lift  the  heavy  end  of  the  log,  and  when 
the  God  of  Cussedness  was  doing  his  best  to  rasp  a 
man  down  to  his  yellow  streak,  you  showed  up  white 
all  through.  Say,  kid,  we've  been  in  tight  places  to- 
gether; we've  been  stacked  up  against  hard  times  to- 

323 


324  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

gether:  and  now  I'll  be  gol-darned  if  I'm  going  to 
stand  by  and  see  you  go  downhill,  while  the  devil 
oils  the  bearings," 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  I  protested. 

"  Yes,  you're  all  right,"  he  echoed  grimly.  "  In 
an  impersonation  of  an  '  all-right  '  man  it's  the  hook 
for  yours.  I've  seen  '  all-right  '  men  lilce  you  hit- 
ting the  hurry  trail  for  the  boneyard  before  now. 
You're  '  all  right ' !  Why,  for  the  last  two  hours 
you've  been  sitting  with  that  '  just-break-the-news-to- 
mother '  expression  of  yours,  and  paying  no  more 
heed  to  my  cheerful  brand  of  conversation  than  if  I 
had  been  a  measly  four-flusher.  You  don't  eat  more 
than  a  sick  sparrow,  and  often  you  don't  bat  an  eye 
all  night.  You're  looking  worse  than  the  devil  in  a 
gale  of  wind.  You've  lost  your  grip,  my  boy.  You 
don't  care  whether  school  keeps  or  not.  In  fact,  if  it 
wasn't  for  your  folks,  you'd  as  lief  take  a  short  cut 
across  the  Great  Divide." 

"  You're  going  it  a  little  strong,  old  man." 

"  Oh  no,  I'm  not.  You  know  you're  sick  of 
everything.  Feel  as  if  life's  a  sort  of  penitentiary, 
and  you've  just  got  to  do  time.  You  don't  expect  to 
get  any  more  fun  out  of  it.  Look  at  me.  Every 
day's  my  sunshine  day.  If  the  sky's  blue  I  like  it;  if 
it's  grey  I  like  it  just  as  well.  I  never  worry. 
What's  the  use?  Yesterday's  a  dead  one;  to-mor- 
row's always  to-morrow.  All  we've  got's  the  '  now,' 
and  it's  up  to  us  to  live  it  for  all  we're  worth.  You 
can  use  up  more  human  steam  to  the  square  inch  In 
worrying  than  you  can  to  the  square  yard  in  hard 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  325 

work.     Eliminate  worry  and  you've  got  the  only  sys- 


tem." 


"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  preach,"  I  said;  "  you 
forget  I've  been  a  pretty  sick  man." 

"  That's  no  nursemaid's  dream.  You  almost 
cashed  in.  Typhoid's  a  serious  proposition  at  the 
best;  but  when  you  take  a  crazy  streak  on  top  of  it, 
make  a  midnight  getaway  from  the  sick-ward  and 
land  up  on  the  Slide  looking  as  if  you'd  been  run 
through  a  threshing  machine,  well,  you're  sure  letting 
death  get  a  short  option  on  you.  And  you  gave  up. 
You  didn't  want  to  fight.  You  shirked,  but  your 
youth  and  constitution  fought  for  you.  They  healed 
your  wounds,  they  soothed  your  ravings,  they  cooled 
your  fever.  They  wer-^  a  great  team,  and  they 
pulled  you  through.  Seems  as  if  they'd  pulled  you 
through  a  knot-hole,  but  they  were  on  to  their  job. 
And  you  weren't  one  bit  grateful — seemed  to  think 
they  had  no  business  to  butt  in." 

"  My  hurts  are  more  than  physical." 

"  Yes,  I  know;  there  was  that  girl.  You  seemed 
to  have  a  notion  that  that  was  the  only  girl  on  God's 
green  brush-pile.  As  I  camped  there  by  your  bedside 
listening  to  your  ravings,  and  getting  a  strangle-hold 
on  you  when  you  took  it  into  your  head  to  get  funny, 
you  blabbed  out  the  whole  yarn.  Oh,  sonny,  why 
didn't  you  tell  your  uncle?  Why  didn't  you  put  me 
wise?  I  could  have  given  you  the  right  steer.  Have 
you  ever  known  me  handle  a  job  I  couldn't  make  good 
at?  I'm  a  whole  matrimonial  bureau  rolled  into  one. 
I'd  have  had  you  prancing  to  the  tune  of  the  wed- 


326  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

ding  march  before  now.  But  you  kept  mum  as  a 
mummy.  Wouldn't  even  tell  your  old  pard.  Now 
you've  lost  her." 

"  Yes,  I've  lost  her." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her  after  you  came  out  of  the 
hospital?  " 

"  Once,  once  only.  It  was  the  first  day.  I  was 
as  thin  as  a  rail,  as  white  as  the  pillow  from  which 
I  had  just  raised  my  head.  Death's  reprieve  was 
written  all  over  me.  I  dragged  along  wearily,  lean- 
ing on  a  stick.  I  was  thinking  of  her,  thinking,  think- 
ing always.  As  I  scanned  the  faces  of  the  crowds 
that  thronged  the  streets,  I  thought  only  of  her  face. 
Then  suddenly  she  was  before  me.  She  looked  like 
a  ghost,  poor  little  thing;  and  for  a  fluttering  mo- 
ment we  stared  at  each  other,  she  and  I,  two  wan, 
weariful  ghosts." 

"  Yes,  what  did  she  say?  " 

"Say!  she  said  nothing.  She  just  looked  at  me. 
Her  face  was  cold  as  ice.  She  looked  at  me  as  if  she 
wanted  to  pity  me.  Then  into  her  eyes  there  came 
a  shadow  of  bitterness,  of  bitterness  and  despair  such 
as  might  gloom  the  eyes  of  a  lost  soul.  It  unnerved 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  she  was  regarding  me  almost 
with  horror,  as  if  I  were  a  sort  of  a  leper.  As  I 
stood  there,  I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  She 
seemed  to  sway  a  moment.  Then  she  drew  a  great, 
gasping  breath,  and  turning  on  her  heel  she  was 
gone." 

"She  cut  you?" 

"  Yes,   cut  me  dead,   old   fellow.     And  my  only 


/ 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  327 

thought  was  of  love  for  her,  eternal  love.  But  I'll 
never  forget  the  look  on  her  face  as  she  turned  away. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  lashed  her  with  a  whip.  My 
God!" 

"  And  you've  never  seen  her  since?  " 

"  No,  never.  That  was  enough,  wasn't  it?  She 
didn't  want  to  speak  to  me  any  more,  never  wanted 
to  set  eyes  on  me  any  more.  I  went  back  to  the 
ward;  then,  in  a  little,  I  came  on  here.  My  body 
was  living,  but  my  heart  was  dead.  It  will  never 
live  again." 

"  Oh,  rot !  You  mustn't  let  the  thing  down  you 
like  that.  It's  going  to  kill  you  in  the  end.  Buck 
up  !  Be  a  man !  If  you  don't  care  to  live  for  your- 
self, live  for  others.  Anyway,  it's  likely  all  for  the 
best.  Maybe  love  had  you  locoed.  Maybe  she 
wasn't  really  good.  See  now  how  she  lives  openly 
with  Locasto.  They  call  her  the  Madonna ;  they  say 
she  looks  more  like  a  virgin-martyr  than  the  mistress 
of  a  dissolute  man." 

I  rose  and  looked  at  him,  conscious  that  my  face 
was  all  twisted  with  the  pain  of  the  thought. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  "  never  did  God  put  the 
breath  of  life  into  a  better  girl.  There's  been  foul 
play.  I  know  that  girl  better  than  any  one  in  the 
world,  and  if  every  living  being  were  to  tell  me  she 
wasn't  good  I  would  tell  them  they  lied,  they  lied.  I 
would  burn  at  the  stake  upholding  that  girl." 

"  Then  why  did  she  turn  you  down  so  cruelly?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  I  can't  understand  it.  I  know  so 
little  about  women.      I  have  not  wavered  a  moment. 


328  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

To-day  in  my  loneliness  and  heartbreak  I  care  and 
hunger  for  her  more  than  ever.  She's  always  here, 
right  here  in  my  head,  and  no  power  can  drive  her 
out.  Let  them  say  of  her  what  they  will,  I  would 
marry  her  to-morrow.  It's  killing  me.  I've  aged 
ten  years  in  the  last  few  months.  Oh,  if  I  only 
could  forget." 

He  looked  at  me  thoughtfully. 

"  I  say,  old  man,  do  you  ever  hear  from  your  old 
lady?" 

"  Every  mail." 

"  You've  often  told  me  of  your  home.  Say!  just 
give  us  a  mental  frame-up  of  it." 

"  Glengyle?  Yes.  I  can  see  the  old  place  now, 
as  plainly  as  a  picture:  the  green,  dimpling  hills  all 
speckled  with  sheep;  the  grey  house  nestling  snugly 
In  a  grove  of  birch;  the  wild  water  of  the  burn  leap- 
ing from  black  pool  to  pool,  just  mad  with  the  joy 
of  life;  the  midges  dancing  over  the  water  in  the 
still  sunshine,  and  the  trout  jumping  for  them — oh, 
it's  the  bonny,  bonny  place.  You  would  think  so  too. 
You  would  like  it,  tramping  knee-deep  in  the  heather, 
to  see  the  moorcock  rise  whirring  at  your  feet;  you 
would  like  to  set  sail  with  the  fisher  folk  after  the 
silver  herring.  It  would  make  you  feel  good  to  see 
the  calm  faces  of  the  shepherds,  the  peace  in  the  eyes 
of  the  women.  Ay,  that  was  the  best  of  it  all,  the 
Rest  of  it,  the  calm  of  it.  I  was  pretty  happy  in  those 
days." 

"  You  were  happy — then  why  not  go  back?  That's 
your  proper  play;  go  back  to  your  Mother.     She 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  329 

wants  you.  You're  pretty  well  heeled  now.  A  little 
money  goes  a  long  way  over  there.  You  can  count  on 
thirty  thousand.  You'll  be  comfortable;  you'll  de- 
vote yourself  to  the  old  lady;  you'll  be  happy  again. 
Time's  a  regular  steam-roller  when  it  comes  to 
smoothing  out  the  rough  spots  in  the  past.  You'll 
forget  it  all,  this  place,  this  girl.  It'll  all  seem  like 
the  after  effects  of  a  midnight  Welsh  rabbit.  You'\-e 
got  mental  indigestion.  I  hate  to  see  you  go.  I'm 
really  sorry  to  lose  you;  but  it's  your  only  salvation, 
so  go,  go!  " 

Never  had  I  thought  of  it  before.  Home!  how 
sweet  the  word  seemed.  Mother !  yes,  Mother  would 
comfort  me  as  no  one  else  could.  She  would  under- 
stand. Mother  and  Garry  1  A  sudden  craving  came 
over  me  to  see  them  again.  Maybe  with  them  I 
could  find  relief  from  this  awful  agony  of  heart, 
this  thing  that  I  could  scarce  bear  to  think  of,  yet 
never  ceased  to  think  of.  Home !  that  was  the  solu- 
tion of  it  all.     Ah  me!      I  would  go  home. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  can't  go  too  soon;  I'll  start  to- 
morrow." 

So  I  rose  and  proceeded  to  gather  together  my  few 
belongings.  In  the  early  morning  I  would  start  out. 
No  use  prolonging  the  business  of  my  going.  I 
would  say  good-bye  to  those  two  partners  of  mine, 
with  a  grip  of  the  hand,  a  tear  in  the  eye,  a  husky: 
"  Take  care  of  yourself."  That  would  be  all. 
Likely  I  would  never  see  them  again. 

Jim  came  in  and  sat  down  quietly.  The  old  man 
had    been    very    silent    of    late.     Putting    on    his 


330  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

spectacles,  he  took  out  his  well-worn  Bible  and  opened 
it.  Back  in  Dawson  there  was  a  man  whom  he  hated 
with  the  hate  that  only  death  can  end,  but  for  the 
peace  of  his  soul  he  strove  to  conquer  it.  The  hate 
slumbered,  yet  at  times  it  stirred,  and  into  the  old 
man's  eyes  there  came  the  tiger-look  that  had  once 
made  him  a  force  and  a  fear.  Woe  betide  his  enemy 
if  that  tiger  ever  woke. 

"  I've  been  a-thinkin'  out  a  scheme,"  said  Jim  sud- 
denly, "  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  put  all  of  that  twenty-five 
thousand  of  mine  back  into  the  ground.  You  know 
us  old  miners  are  gamblers  to  the  end.  It's  not  the 
gold,  but  the  gettin'  of  it.  It's  the  excitement,  the 
hope,  the  anticipation  of  one's  luck  that  counts.  We're 
fighters,  an'  we've  just  got  to  keep  on  fightin'.  We 
can't  quit.  There's  the  ground,  and  there's  the 
precious  metals  it's  a-tryin'  to  hold  back  on  us.  It's 
up  to  us  to  get  them  out.  It's  for  the  good  of 
humanity.  The  miner  an'  the  farmer  rob  no  one. 
They  just  get  down  to  that  old  ground  an'  coax  it  an' 
beat  it  an'  bully  it  till  it  gives  up.  They're  working 
for  the  good  of  humanity — the  farmer  an'  the  miner." 
The  old  man  paused  sententiously. 

"  Well,  I  can't  quit  this  minin'  business.  I've  just 
got  to  go  on  so  long's  I've  got  health  an'  strength; 
an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  shove  all  I've  got  once  more  into 
the  muck.  I  stand  to  make  a  big  pile,  or  lose  my 
wad." 

"  What's  your  scheme,  Jim?  " 

"  It's  just  this :  I'm  goin'  to  install  a  hydraulic  plant 
on  my  Ophir  Creek  claim.     I've  got  a  great  notion  of 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  331 

that  claim.  It's  an  out-of-sight  proposition  for 
workin'  with  water.  There's  a  Httle  stream  runs 
down  the  hill,  an'  the  hill's  steep  right  there. 
There's  one  hundred  feet  of  fall,  an'  in  Spring  a 
mighty  powerful  bunch  of  water  comes  a-tumblin' 
down.  Well,  I'm  goin'  to  dam  it  up  above,  bring  it 
down  a  flume,  hitch  on  a  little  giant,  an'  turn  it  loose 
to  rip  an'  tear  at  that  there  ground.  I'm  goin'  to 
begin  a  new  era  in  Klondike  minin'." 

"  Bully  for  you,  Jim." 

"  The  values  are  there  in  the  groynd,  an'  I'm  sick 
of  the  old  slow  way  of  gettin'  them  out.  This  looks 
mighty  good  to  me.  Anyway,  I'm  a-goin'  to  give  it 
a  trial.  It's  just  the  start  of  things;  you'll  see  others 
will  follow  suit.  The  individual  miner's  got  to  go; 
it's  only  a  matter  of  time.  Some  day  you'll  see  this 
whole  country  worked  over  by  them  big  power 
dredges  they've  got  down  in  Californy.  You  mark 
my  words,   boys;   the   old-fashioned   miner's   got  to 

go." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Well,  I've  written  out  for  piping  an'  a  monitor, 
an'  next  Spring  I  hope  I'll  have  the  plant  in  workin' 
order.  The  stuff's  on  the  way  now.  Hullo !  Come 
in !  " 

The  visitors  were  Mervin  and  Hewson  on  their  way 
to  Dawson.  These  two  men  had  been  successful  be- 
yond their  dreams.  It  was  just  like  finding  money 
the  way  fortune  had  pushed  it  in  front  of  their 
noses.  They  were  offensively  prosperous;  they 
reeked  of  success. 


332  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

In  both  of  them  a  great  change  had  taken  place, 
a  change  only  too  typical  of  the  gold-camp.  They 
seemed  to  have  thawed  out;  they  were  irrepressibly 
genial;  yet  instead  of  that  restraint  that  had  formerly 
distinguished  them,  there  was  a  grafted  quality  of 
weakness,  of  flaccidity,  of  surrender  to  the  enervating 
vices  of  the  town. 

Mervin  was  remarkably  thin.  Dark  hollows 
circled  his  eyes,  and  a  curious  nervousness  twisted 
his  mouth.  He  was  "  a  terror  for  the  women," 
they  said.  He  lavished  his  money  on  them  faster 
than  he  made  it.  He  was  vastly  more  companion- 
able than  formerly,  but  somehow  you  felt  his  virihty, 
his  fighting  force  had  gone. 

In  Hewson  the  change  was  even  more  marked. 
Those  iron  muscles  had  couched  themselves  in  easy 
flesh;  his  cheeks  sagged;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and 
untidy.  Nevertheless  he  was  more  of  a  good  fel- 
low, talked  rather  vauntingly  of  his  wealth,  and  af- 
fected a  patronising  manner.  He  was  worth  prob- 
ably two  hundred  thousand,  and  he  drank  a  bottle  of 
brandy  a  day. 

In  the  case  of  these  two  men,  as  in  the  case  of  a 
thousand  others  in  the  gold-camp,  it  seemed  as  if 
easy,  unhoped-for  affluence  was  to  prove  their  undo- 
ing. On  the  trail  they  had  been  supreme;  in  fen 
or  forest,  on  peak  or  plain,  they  were  men  among 
men,  fighting  with  nature  savagely,  exultantly.  But 
when  the  fight  was  over  their  arms  rested,  their 
muscles  relaxed,  they  yielded  to  sensuous  pleasures. 
It  seemed  as  if  to  them  victory  really  meant  defeat. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  333 

As  I  went  on  with  my  packing  I  paid  but  little 
heed  to  their  talk.  What  mattered  it  to  me  now,  this 
babble  of  dumps  and  dust,  of  claims  and  clean-ups? 
I  was  going  to  thrust  it  all  behind  me,  blot  it  clean 
out  of  my  memory,  begin  my  life  anew.  It  would  be 
a  larger,  more  luminous  life.  I  would  live  for  others. 
Home!  Mother!  again  how  exquisitely  my  heart 
glowed  at  the  thought  of  them. 

Then  all  at  once  I  pricked  up  my  ears.  They  were 
talking  of  the  town,  of  the  men  and  women  who  were 
making  it  famous  (or  rather  infamous),  when  sud- 
denly they  spoke  the  name  of  Locasto. 

"  He's  gone  off,"  Mervin  was  saying;  "  gone  off  on 
a  big  stampede.  He  got  pretty  thick  with  some  of 
the  Peel  River  Indians,  and  found  they  knew  of  a 
ledge  of  high-grade,  free-milling  quartz  somewhere 
out  there  in  the  Land  Back  of  Beyond.  He  had  a 
sample  of  it,  and  you  could  just  see  the  gold  shining 
all  through  it.  It  was  great  stuff.  Jack  Locasto's 
the  last  man  to  turn  down  a  chance  like  that.  He's 
the  worst  gambler  in  the  Northland,  and  no  amount 
of  wealth  will  ever  satisfy  him.  So  he's  off  with  an 
Indian  and  one  companion,  that  little  Irish  satellite 
of  his,  Pat  Doogan.  They  have  six  months'  grub. 
They'll  be  away  all  winter." 

"  What's  become  of  that  girl  of  his?  "  asked  Hew- 
son,  "the  last  one  he's  been  living  with?  You  re- 
member she  came  in  on  the  boat  with  us.  Poor  little 
kid!  Blast  that  man  anyway.  He's  not  content 
with  women  of  his  own  kind,  he's  got  to  get  his 
clutches  on  the  best  of  them.     That  was  a  good  lit- 


334  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

tie  girl  before  he  got  after  her.  If  she  was  a  friend 
of  mine  I'd  put  a  bullet  in  his  ugly  heart." 

Hewson  growled  like  a  wrathful  bear,  but  Mervin 
smiled  his  cynical  smile. 

"Oh,  you  mean  the  Madonna,"  he  said;  "why, 
she's  gone  on  the  dance-halls." 

They  continued  to  talk  of  other  things,  but  I  did 
not  hear  them  any  more.  I  was  in  a  trance,  and  I 
only  aroused  when  they  rose  to  go, 

"  Better  say  good-bye  to  the  kid  here,"  said  the 
Prodigal;  "he's  going  to  the  old  country  to-mor- 
row." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  I  answered  sullenly;  "  I'm  just  go- 
ing as  far  as  Dawson." 

He  stared  and  expostulated,  but  my  mind  was 
made  up.     I  would  light,  fight  to  the  last. 


CHAPTER  II 

Berna  on  the  dance-halls — words  cannot  convey  all 
that  this  simple  phrase  meant  to  me.  For  two 
months  I  had  been  living  in  a  dull  apathy  of  pain, 
but  this  news  galvanised  me  into  immediate  action. 

For  although  there  were  many  degrees  of  dance- 
hall  depravity,  at  the  best  it  meant  a  brand  of  inef- 
faceable shame.  She  had  lived  with  Locasto,  had 
been  recognised  as  his  mistress — that  was  bad 
enough ;  but  the  other — to  be  at  the  mercy  of  all,  to 
be  classed  with  the  harpies  that  preyed  on  the  Man 
with    the    Poke,    the    vampires    of    the    gold-camp. 

Berna Oh,  it  was  unspeakable!     The  thought 

maddened  me.  The  needle-point  of  suffering  that 
for  weeks  had  been  boring  into  my  brain  seemed  to 
have  pierced  its  core  at  last. 

When  the  Prodigal  expostulated  with  me  I  laughed 
— a  bitter,  mirthless  laugh. 

"  I'm  going  to  Dawson,"  I  said,  "  and  if  it  was 
hell  itself,  I'd  go  there  for  that  girl.  I  don't 
care  what  any  one  thinks.  Home,  society,  honour 
itself,  let  them  all  go;  they  don't  matter  now. 
I  was  a  fool  to  think  I  could  ever  give  her  up,  a  fool. 
Now  I  know  that  as  long  as  there's  life  and  strength 
in  my  body,  I'll  fight  for  her.  Oh,  I'm  not  the  sen- 
timentalist I  was  six  months  ago.  I've  lived  since 
then.     I  can  hold  my  own  now.     I  can  meet  men  on 

335 


336  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

their  own  level.  I  can  fight,  I  can  win.  I  don't  care 
any  more,  after  what  I've  gone  through.  I  don't  set 
any  particular  value  on  my  life.  I'll  throw  it  away 
as  recklessly  as  the  best  of  them.  I'm  going  to  have 
a  fierce  fight  for  that  girl,  and  if  I  lose  there'll  be 
no  more  '  me  '  left  to  fight.  Don't  try  to  reason  with 
me.  Reason  be  damned!  I'm  going  to  Dawson, 
and  a  hundred  men  couldn't  hold  me." 

"  You  seem  to  have  some  new  stunts  in  your  reper- 
toire," he  said,  looking  at  me  curiously;  "  you've  got 
me  guessing.  Sometimes  I  think  you're  a  candidate 
for  the  dippy-house,  then  again  I  think  you're  on  to 
yourself.  There's  a  grim  set  to  your  mouth  and  a 
hard  look  in  your  eyes  that  I  didn't  use  to  see.  May- 
be you  can  hold  up  your  end.  Well,  anyway,  if  you 
will  go  I  wish  you  good  luck." 

So,  bidding  good-bye  to  the  big  cabin,  with  my  two 
partners  looking  ruefully  after  me,  I  struck  off  down 
Bonanza.  It  was  mid-October.  A  bitter  wind 
chilled  me  to  the  marrow.  Once  more  the  land  lay 
stark  beneath  its  coverlet  of  snow,  and  the  sky  was 
wan  and  ominous.  I  travelled  fast,  for  a  painful 
anxiety  gripped  me,  so  that  I  scarce  took  notice  of  the 
improved  trail,  of  the  increased  activity,  of  the  heaps 
of  tailings  built  up  with  brush  till  they  looked  like 
walls  of  a  fortification.  All  I  thought  of  was  Daw- 
son and  Berna. 

How  curious  it  was,  this  strange  new  strength,  this 
indifference  to  self,  to  physical  suffering,  to  danger, 
to  public  opinion !  I  thought  only  of  the  girl.  I 
would  make  her  marry  me.     I  cared  nothing  for  what 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  337 

had  happened  to  her.  I  might  be  a  pariah,  an  out- 
cast for  the  rest  of  my  days;  at  least  I  would  save 
her,  shield  her,  cherish  her.  The  thought  uplifted 
me,  exalted  me.  I  had  suffered  beyond  expression. 
I  had  rearranged  my  set  of  ideas;  my  concept  of 
life,  of  human  nature,  had  broadened  and  deepened. 
What  did  it  matter  if  physically  they  had  wronged 
her?  Was  not  the  pure,  virgin  soul  of  her  beyond 
their  reach? 

I  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  last  boat  go  out.  Al- 
ready the  river  was  "  throwing  ice,"  and  every  day 
the  jagged  edges  of  it  crept  further  towards  mid- 
stream. An  immense  and  melancholy  mob  stood  on 
the  wharf  as  the  little  steamer  backed  off  into  the 
channel.  There  were  uproarious  souls  on  board,  and 
many  women  of  the  town  screaming  farewells  to  their 
friends.  On  the  boat  all  was  excited,  extravagant 
joy;  on  the  wharf,  a  sorry  attempt  at  resignation. 

The  last  boat !  they  watched  her  as  her  stern  paddle 
churned  the  freezing  water;  they  watched  her  forge 
her  slow  way  through  the  ever-thickening  ice-flakes; 
they  watched  her  in  the  far  distance  battling  with  the 
Klondike  current;  then,  sad  and  despondent,  they 
turned  away  to  their  lonely  cabins.  Never  had  their 
exile  seemed  so  bitter.  A  few  more  days  and  the 
river  would  close  tight  as  a  drum.  The  long,  long 
night  would  fall  on  them,  and  for  nigh  on  eight  weary 
months  they  would  be  cut  off  from  the  outside  world. 

Yet  soon,  very  soon,  a  mood  of  reconciliation  would 
set  in.  They  would  begin  to  make  the  best  of  things. 
To  feed  that  great  Octopus,  the  town,  the  miners 


338  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

would  flock  in  from  the  creeks  with  treasure  hoarded 
up  In  baking-powder  tins;  the  dance-halls  and  gam- 
bling-places would  absorb  them;  the  gaiety  would  go 
on  full  swing,  and  there  would  seem  but  little  change 
in  the  glittering  abandon  of  the  gold-camp.  As  I 
paced  its  sidewalks  once  more  I  marvelled  at  its 
growth.  New  streets  had  been  made;  the  stores 
boasted  expensive  fittings  and  gloried  in  costly  goods; 
in  the  bar-rooms  were  splendid  mirrors  and  ornate 
woodwork;  the  restaurants  offered  European  deli- 
cacies; all  was  on  a  new  scale  of  extravagance,  of  gar- 
ish display,  of  insolent  wealth. 

Everywhere  the  man  with  the  fat  "  poke  "  was  In 
evidence.  He  came  Into  town  unshorn,  wild-looking, 
often  raggedly  clad,  yet  always  with  the  same  wist- 
ful hunger  in  his  eyes.  You  saw  that  look,  and  it  took 
you  back  to  the  dark  and  dirt  and  drudgery  of  the 
claim,  the  mirthless  months  of  toil,  the  crude  cabin 
with  its  sugar  barrel  of  Ice  behind  the  door,  its  grease 
light  dimly  burning,  its  rancid  smell  of  stale  food. 
You  saw  him  lying  smoking  his  strong  pipe,  looking 
at  that  can  of  nuggets  on  the  rough  shelf,  and  dream- 
ing of  what  it  would  mean  to  him — out  there  where 
the  lights  glittered  and  the  gramophones  blared. 
Surely,  if  patience,  endurance.  If  grim,  unswerving 
purpose,  if  sullen,  desperate  toil  deserved  a  re- 
ward, this  man  had  a  peckful  of  pleasure  for  his 
due. 

And  always  that  hungry,  wistful  look.  The 
women  with  the  painted  cheeks  knew  that  look;  the 
black-jack  boosters  knew  it;  the  barkeeper  with  his 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  339 

knock-out  drops  knew  it.  They  waited  for  him;  he 
was  their  "  meat." 

Yet  in  a  few  days  your  wild  and  woolly  man  is 
transformed,  and  no  longer  does  your  sympathy  go 
out  towards  him.  Shaven  and  shorn,  clad  in 
silken  underwear,  with  patent  leather  shoes,  and  a 
suit  in  New  York  style,  you  absolutely  fail  to  recog- 
nise him  as  your  friend  of  the  moccasins  and 
mackinaw  coat.  He  is  smoking  a  dollar  Laranago, 
he  has  half  a  dozen  whiskies  *'  under  his  belt,"  and 
later  on  he  has  a  "  date  "  with  a  lady  singer  of  the 
Pavilion  Theatre.  He  is  having  a  "  whale  "  of  a 
good  time,  he  tells  you ;  you  wonder  how  long  he  will 
last. 

Not  for  long.  Sharp  and  short  and  sweet  it  is. 
He  is  brought  up  with  a  jerk,  and  the  Dago  Queen,, 
for  whom  he  has  bought  so  much  wine  at  twenty  dol- 
lars a  bottle,  has  no  recognition  for  him  in  her 
flashing  eyes.  He  has  been  "  taken  down  the 
line,"  "  trimmed  to  a  finish  "  by  an  artist  in  the  busi- 
ness. Ruefully  he  turns  his  poke  inside  out — not  a 
"  colour."  He  cannot  even  command  the  price  of  a 
penitential  three-fingers  of  rye.  Such  is  one  of  the 
commonest  phases  of  life  in  the  gold-camp. 

As  I  strolled  the  streets  I  saw  many  a  familiar 
face.  Mosher  I  saw.  He  had  grown  very  fat,  and 
was  talking  to  a  diminutive  woman  with  heavy  blond 
hair  (she  must  have  weighed  about  ninety-five  pounds, 
I  think).     They  went  off  together. 

A  knife-edged  wind  was  sweeping  dowm  from  the 
north,  and  men  in  bulging  coonskin  coats  filled  up  the 


340  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

sidewalks.  At  the  Aurora  corner  I  came  across  the 
Jam-wagon.  He  was  wearing  a  jacket  of  summer 
flannels,  and,  as  If  to  suggest  extra  warmth,  he  had 
turned  up  Its  narrow  collar.  In  his  trembling  fingers 
he  held  an  emaciated  cigarette,  which  he  Inhaled 
avidly.  He  looked  wretched,  pinched  with  hunger, 
peaked  with  cold,  but  he  straightened  up  when  he 
saw  me  Into  a  semblance  of  well-being.  Then,  in  a 
little,  he  sagged  forward,  and  his  eyes  went  dull  and 
abject.  It  was  a  business  of  the  utmost  delicacy  to 
induce  him  to  accept  a  small  loan.  I  knew  It  would 
only  plunge  him  more  deeply  into  the  mire;  but  I 
could  not  bear  to  see  him  suffer. 

I  went  into  the  Parisian  Restaurant.  It  was  more 
glittering,  more  raffish,  more  clamant  of  the  tenderloin 
than  ever.  There  were  men  waiters  in  the  conven- 
tional garb  of  walterdom,  and  there  was  Madam, 
harder  looking  and  more  vulturlsh.  You  won- 
dered if  such  a  woman  could  have  a  soul,  and  what 
was  the  end  and  aim  of  her  being.  There  she  sat, 
a  creature  of  rapacity  and  sordid  lust.  I  marched 
up  to  her  and  asked  abruptly: 

"Where's  Berna?" 

She  gave  a  violent  start.  There  was  a  quality  of 
fear  In  her  bold  eyes.  Then  she  laughed,  a  hard, 
jarring  laugh. 

"  In  the  TIvolI,"  she  said. 

Strange  again !  Now  that  the  worst  had  come  to 
pass,  and  I  had  suffered  all  that  it  was  in  my  power 
to  suffer,  this  new  sense  of  strength  and  mastery  had 
come  to  me.     It  seemed  as  if  some  of  the  Iron  spirit 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  341 

of  the  land  had  gotten  into  my  blood,  a  grim,  in- 
solent spirit  that  made  me  fearless;  at  times  a  cold 
cynical  spirit,  a  spirit  of  rebellion,  of  anarchy,  of  ag- 
gression. The  greatest  evil  had  befallen  me.  Life 
could  do  no  more  to  harm  me.  I  had  everything  to 
gain  and  nothing  to  lose.  I  cared  for  no  man.  I 
despised  them,  and,  to  baclc  me  in  my  bitterness,  I  had 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank. 

I  was  still  weak  from  my  illness  and  my  long  mush 
had  wearied  me,  so  I  went  into  a  saloon  and  called 
for  drinks.  I  felt  the  raw  whisky  burn  my  throat. 
I  tingled  from  head  to  foot  with  a  strange,  pleasing 
warmth.  Suddenly  the  bar,  with  its  protecting  rod 
of  brass,  seemed  to  me  a  very  desirable  place,  bright, 
warm,  suggestive  of  comfort  and  good-fellowship. 
How  agreeably  every  one  was  smiling !  Indeed, 
some  were  laughing  for  sheer  joy.  A  big,  merry- 
hearted  miner  called  for  another  round,  and  I  joined 
in. 

Where  was  that  bitter  feeling  now?  Where  that 
morbid  pain  at  my  heart?  As  I  drank  it  all  seemed 
to  pass  away.  Magical  change!  What  a  fool  I  was! 
W^hat  was  there  to  make  such  a  fuss  about?  Take 
life  easy.  Laugh  alike  at  the  good  and  bad  of  it. 
It  was  all  a  farce  anyway.  What  would  it  matter  a 
hundred  years  from  now?  Why  were  we  put  into 
this  world  to  be  tortured?  I,  for  one,  would  protest. 
I  would  writhe  no  more  in  the  strait-jacket  of  ex- 
istence. Here  was  escape,  heartsease,  happiness — 
here  in  this  bottled  impishness.     Again  I  drank. 

What  a  rotten  world  it  all  was!      But  I  had  no 


342  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

hand  in  the  making  of  it,  and  it  wasn't  my  task  to 
improve  it.  I  was  going  to  get  the  best  I  could  out 
of  it.  Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  that  was  the  last 
word  of  philosophy.  Others  seemed  to  be  able  to  ex- 
tract all  kinds  of  happiness  from  things  as  they  are, 
so  why  not  I?  In  any  case,  here  was  the  solution  of 
my  troubles.  Better  to  die  happily  drunk  than  mis- 
erably sober.  I  was  not  drinking  from  weakness. 
Oh  no !  I  was  drinking  with  deliberate  intent  to 
kill  pain. 

How  wonderfully  strong  I  felt!  I  smashed  my 
clenched  fist  against  the  bar.  My  knuckles  were 
bruised  and  bleeding,  but  I  felt  no  pain.  I  was  so 
light  of  foot,  I  imagined  I  could  jump  over  the 
counter.  I  ached  to  fight  some  one.  Then  all  at 
once  came  the  thought  of  Berna.  It  came  with 
tragical  suddenness,  with  poignant  force.  Intensely 
it  smote  me  as  never  before.  I  could  have  burst  into 
maudlin  tears. 

"  What's  the  matter.  Slim?  "  asked  a  mouldy  man- 
nikin,  affectionately  hanging  on  to  my  arm. 

Disgustedly  I  looked  at  him. 

"  Take  your  filthy  paws  off  me,"  I  said. 

His  jaw  dropped  and  he  stared  at  me.  Then,  be- 
fore he  could  draw  on  his  fund  of  profanity,  I  burst 
through  the  throng  and  made  for  the  door. 

I  was  drunk,  deplorably  drunk,  and  I  was  bound 
for  the  Tivoli. 


CHAPTER  III 

I  WISH  It  to  be  understood  that  I  make  no  excuses  for 
myself  at  this  particular  stage  of  my  chronicle.  I 
am  only  conscious  of  a  desire  to  tell  the  truth.  Many 
of  the  stronger-minded  will  no  doubt  condemn  me; 
many  of  those  inclined  to  a  rigid  system  of  morality 
will  be  disgusted  with  me;  but,  however  it  may  be,  I 
will  write  plainly  and  without  reserve. 

When  I  reeled  out  of  the  Grubstake  Saloon  I  was 
in  a  peculiar  state  of  exaltation.  No  longer  was  I 
conscious  of  the  rasping  cold,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I 
could  have  couched  me  In  the  deep  snow  as  cosily  as  In 
a  bed  of  down.  Surpassingly  brilliant  were  the  lights. 
They  seemed  to  convey  to  me  a  portentous  wink. 
They  twinkled  with  jovial  cheer.  What  a  desirable 
place  the  world  was,  after  all ! 

With  an  ebullient  sense  of  eloquence,  of  ex- 
travagant oratory,  I  longed  for  a  sympathetic  ear. 
An  altruistic  emotion  pervaded  me.  Who  would 
suspect,  thought  I,  as  I  walked  a  little  too  circum- 
spectly amid  the  throng,  that  my  heart  was  aglow, 
that  I  was  tensing  my  muscles  in  the  pride  of  their 
fitness,  that  my  brain  was  a  bewildering  kaleidoscope 
of  thoughts  and  Images? 

Gramophones  were  braying  in  every  conceivable 
key.  Brazen  women  were  leering  at  me.  Pot- 
bellied men  regarded  me  furtively.     Alluringly  the 

343 


344  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

gambling-dens  and  dancing-dives  invited  me.  The 
town  was  a  giant  spider  drawing  in  its  prey,  and  I  was 
the  prey,  it  seemed.  Others  there  were  in  plenty, 
men  with  the  eager,  wistful  eyes ;  but  who  was  there 
so  eager  and  wistful  as  I?  And  I  didn't  care  any 
more.  Strike  up  the  music!  On  with  the  dance! 
Only  one  life  have  we  to  live.  Ah !  there  was  the 
Tivoli. 

To  the  right  as  I  entered  was  a  palatial  bar  set  off 
with  burnished  brass,  bevelled  mirrors  and  glittering, 
vari-coloured  pyramids  of  costly  liqueurs.  Up  to  the 
bar  men  were  bellying,  and  the  bartenders  in  white 
jackets  were  mixing  drinks  with  masterly  dexterity. 
It  was  a  motley  crowd.  There  were  men  in  broad- 
cloth and  fine  linen,  men  in  blue  shirts  and  mud- 
stiffened  overalls,  grey-bearded  elders  and  beardless 
boys.  It  was  a  noisy  crowd,  laughing,  brawling, 
shouting,  singing.  Here  was  the  foam  of  life, 
with  never  a  hint  of  the  muddy  sediment  under- 
neath. 

To  the  left  I  had  a  view  of  the  gambliig-room,  a 
glimpse  of  green  tables,  of  spinning  balls,  of  cool  men, 
with  shades  over  their  eyes,  impassively  dealing. 
There  were  huge  wheels  of  fortune,  keno  tables, 
crap  outfits,  faro  layouts,  and,  above  all,  the 
dainty,  fascinating  roulette.  Everything  was  in  full 
swing.  Miners  with  flushed  faces  and  a  wild  excite- 
ment in  their  eyes  were  plunging  recklessly;  others, 
calm,  alert,  anxious,  were  playing  cautiously.  Here 
and  there  were  the  fevered  faces  of  women.  Gold 
coin  was  stacked  on  the  tables,  while  a  man  with  a 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  345 

pair  of  scales  was  weighing  dust  from  the  tendered 
pokes. 

In  front  of  me  was  a  double  swing-door  painted  in 
white  and  gold,  and,  pushing  through  this,  for  the 
first  time  I  found  myself  in  a  Dawson  dance-hall. 

I  remember  being  struck  by  the  gorgeousness  of  it, 
its  glitter  and  its  glow.  Who  wojld  have  expected, 
up  in  this  bleak-visaged  North,  to  find  such  a  fairy- 
land of  a  place?  It  was  painted  in  white  and  gold, 
and  set  off  by  clusters  of  bunched  lights.  There  was 
much  elaborate  scroll-work  and  ornate  decoration. 
Down  each  side,  raised  about  ten  feet  from  the  floor, 
and  supported  on  gilt  pillars,  were  little  private  boxes 
hung  with  curtains  of  heliotrope  silk.  At  the  further 
end  of  the  hall  was  a  stage,  and  here  a  vaudeville  per- 
formance was  going  on. 

I  sat  down  on  a  seat  at  the  very  back  of  the  audi- 
ence. Before  me  were  row  after  row  of  heads, 
mostly  rough,  rugged  and  unwashed.  Their  faces 
were  eager,  rapt  as  those  of  children.  They  were 
enjoying,  with  the  deep  satisfaction  of  men  who  for 
many  a  weary  month  had  been  breathing  the  free, 
unbranded  air  of  the  Wild.  The  sensuous  odour  of 
patchouli  was  strangely  pleasant  to  them;  the  sight 
of  a  woman  was  thrillingly  sweet ;  the  sound  of  a  song 
was  ravishing.  Looking  at  many  of  those  toil- 
grooved  faces  one  could  see  that  there  was  no  harm 
in  their  hearts.  They  were  honest,  uncouth,  simple; 
they  were  just  like  children,  the  children  of  the  Wild. 

A  woman  of  generous  physique  was  singing  in  a 
shrill,  nasal  voice  a  pathetic  ballad.     She  sang  with- 


346  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

out  expression,  bringing  her  hands  with  monotonous 
gestures  alternately  to  her  breast.  Her  squat,  ma- 
tronly figure,  beef  from  the  heels  up,  looked  singularly 
absurd  in  her  short  skirt.  Her  face  was  excessively 
over-painted,  her  mouth  good-naturedly  large,  and 
her  eyes  out  of  their  slit-like  lids  leered  at  the  audi- 
ence. 

"  Ain't  she  great?  "  said  a  tall  bean-pole  of  a  man 
on  my  right,  as  she  finished  off  with  a  round  of  ap- 
plause.     "  There's  some  class  to  her  work." 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  confidential  way,  and  his 
pale-blue  eyes  were  full  of  rapturous  appreciation. 
Then  he  did  something  that  surprised  me.  He 
tugged  open  his  poke  and,  dipping  into  it,  he  pro- 
duced a  big  nugget.  Twisting  this  in  a  scrap  of 
paper,  he  rose  up,  long,  lean  and  awkward,  and  with 
careful  aim  he  threw  it  on  the  stage. 

"  Here  ye  are,  Lulu,"  he  piped  in  his  shrill  voice. 
The  woman,  turning  in  her  exit,  picked  up  the  offer- 
ing, gave  her  admirer  a  wide,  gold-toothed  smile,  and 
threw  him  an  emphatic  kiss.  As  the  man  sat  down 
I  could  see  his  mouth  twisting  with  excitement,  and 
his  watery  blue  eyes  snapped  with  pleasure. 

"  By  heck,"  he  said,  "  she's  great,  ain't  she? 
Many's  the  bottle  of  wine  I've  opened  for  that  there 
girl.  Guess  she'll  be  glad  when  she  hears  old 
Henry's  in  town  again.  Henry's  my  name.  Hard- 
pan  Henry  they  call  me,  an'  I've  got  a  claim  on 
Hunker.  Many's  the  wallopin'  poke  have  I  toted 
into  town  an'  blowed  in  on  that  there  girl.  An'  I 
just  guess  this  one'll  go  the  same  gait.    Well,  says  I, 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  347 

what's  the  odds?  I'm  havin'  a  good  time  for  my 
money.  When  it's  gone  there's  lots  more  in  the 
ground.      It  ain't  got  no  legs.      It  can't  run  away." 

He  chuckled  and  hefted  his  poke  in  a  horny  hand. 
There  was  a  flutter  of  the  heliotrope  curtains,  and  the 
face  of  Lulu,  peeping  over  the  plush  edge  of  a  box, 
smiled  bewitchingly  upon  him.  With  another  de- 
lighted chuckle  the  old  man  went  to  join  her. 

"  Darned  old  fool,"  said  a  young  man  on  my  left. 
He  looked  as  if  his  veins  were  chuckful  of  health;  his 
skin  was  as  clear  as  a  girl's,  his  eye  honest  and  fear- 
less. He  was  dressed  in  mackinaw,  and  wore  a  fur 
cap  with  drooping  ear-flaps. 

"  He's  the  greatest  mark  in  the  country,"  the  Youth 
went  on.  "  He's  got  no  more  brains  than  God  gave 
geese.  All  the  girls  are  on  to  him.  Before  he  can 
turn  round  that  old  bat  up  there  will  have  him 
trimmed  to  a  finish.  He'll  be  doing  flip-flaps,  and 
singing  '  'Way  Down  on  the  Suwanee  River  '  standing 
on  his  head.  Then  the  girl  will  pry  him  loose  from 
his  poke,  and  to-morrow  he'll  start  off  up  the  creek, 
teetering  and  swearing  he's  had  a  dooce  of  a  good 
time.     He's  the  easiest  thing  on  earth." 

The  Youth  paused  to  look  on  a  new  singer.  She 
was  a  soubrette,  trim,  dainty  and  confident.  She 
wore  a  blond  wig,  and  her  eyes  in  their  pits  of  black 
were  alluringly  bright.  Paint  was  lavished  on  her 
face  in  violent  dabs  of  rose  and  white,  and  the  in- 
evitable gold  teeth  gleamed  in  her  smile.  She  wore 
a  black  dress  trimmed  with  sequins,  stockings  of 
black,  a  black  velvet  band  around  her  slim  neck.    She 


348  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

was  greeted  with  much  applause,  and  she  began  to 
sing  In  a  fairly  sweet  voice. 

"  That's  Nellie  Lestrange,"  said  the  Youth. 
"  She's  a  great  rustler — Touch-the-button-Nell,  they 
call  her.  They  say  that  when  she  gets  a  jay  into  a 
box  it's  all  day  with  him.  She's  such  a  nifty  wine- 
winner  the  end  of  her  thumb's  calloused  pressing  the 
button  for  fresh  bottles." 

Touch-the-button-Nell  was  singing  a  comic  ditty 
of  a  convivial  order.  She  put  into  it  much  vivacity, 
appealing  to  the  audience  to  join  in  the  chorus  with 
a  pleading,  "  Now  all  together,  boys."  She  had  trip- 
ping steps  and  dainty  kicks  that  went  well  with  the 
melody.  When  she  went  off  half  a  dozen  men  rose 
in  their  places,  and  aimed  nuggets  at  her.  She  cap- 
tured them,  then,  with  a  final  saucy  flounce  of  her 
skirt,  made  her  smiling  exit. 

"By  Gosh!"  said  the  Youth,  "I  wonder  these 
fellows  haven't  got  more  savvy.  You  wouldn't  catch 
me  chucking  away  an  ounce  on  one  of  those  fairies. 
No,  sir!  Nothing  doing!  I've  got  a  five-thousand- 
dollar  poke  in  the  bank,  and  to-morrow  I'll  be  on  my 
way  outside  with  a  draft  for  every  cent  of  it.  A  cer- 
tain little  farm  'way  back  in  Vermont  looks  pretty 
good  to  me,  and  a  little  girl  that  don't  know  the 
use  of  face  powder,  bless  her.  She's  waiting  for 
me." 

The  excitement  of  the  liquor  had  died  away  in  me, 
and  what  with  the  heat  and  smoke  of  the  place,  I  was 
becoming  very  drowsy.  I  was  almost  dozing  off  to 
sleep  when  some  one  touched  me  on  the  arm.     It 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  349 

was  a  negro  waiter  I  had  seen  dodging  in  and  out  of 
the  boxes,  and  known  as  the  Black  Prince. 

"  Dey's  a  lady  up'n  de  box  wants  to  speak  with  yuh, 
sah,"  he  said  politely. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"  Miss  Labelle,  sah,  Miss  Birdie  Labelle." 

I  started.  Who  in  the  Klondike  had  not  heard  of 
Birdie  Labelle,  the  eldest  of  the  three  sisters,  who 
married  Stillwater  Willie?  A  thought  flashed 
through  me  that  she  could  tell  me  something  of  Berna. 

"All  right,"  I  said;  "I'll  come." 

I  followed  him  upstairs,  and  in  a  moment  I  was 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  famous  soubrette. 

"Hullo,  kid!  "  she  exclaimed,  "sit  down.  I  saw 
you  in  the  audience  and  kind-a  took  a  notion  to  your 
face.     How  d'ye  do?  " 

She  extended  a  heavily  bejewelled  hand.  She  was 
plump,  pleasant-looking,  with  a  piquant  smile  and 
flaxen  hair.  I  ordered  the  waiter  to  bring  her  a  bottle 
of  wine. 

"  I've  heard  a  lot  about  you,"  I  said  tentatively. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so,"  she  answered.  "  Most  folks 
have  up  here.  It's  a  sort  of  reflected  glory.  I  guess 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  Bill  I'd  never  have  got  into  the 
limelight  at  all." 

She  sipped  her  champagne  thoughtfully. 

"  I  came  in  here  in  '97,  and  it  was  then  I  met 
Bill.  He  was  there  with  the  coin  all  right.  We  got 
hitched  up  pretty  quick,  but  he  was  such  a  mut  I 
soon  got  sick  of  him.  Then  I  got  skating  round  with 
another    guy.     Well,    an    egg    famine    came    along. 


350  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

There  was  only  nine  hundred  samples  of  hen  fruit  in 
town,  and  one  store  had  a  corner  on  them.  I  went 
down  to  buy  some.  Lord !  how  I  wanted  them  eggs. 
I  kept  thinking  how  I'd  have  them  done,  shipwrecked, 
two  on  a  raft  or  sunny  side  up,  when  who  should  come 
along  but  Bill.  He  sees  what  I  want,  and  quick  as 
a  flash  what  does  he  do  but  buy  up  the  whole  bunch 
at  a  dollar  a-piece !  '  Now,'  says  he  to  me,  '  if  you 
want  eggs  for  breakfast  just  come  home  where  you 
belong.' 

"  Well,  say,  I  was  just  dying  for  them  eggs,  so 
I  comes  to  my  milk  like  a  lady.  I  goes  home  with 
Bill." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  once  more  I  filled  up 
her  glass. 

She  prattled  on  with  many  a  gracious  smile,  and  I 
ordered  another  bottle  of  wine.  In  the  next  box  I 
could  hear  the  squeaky  laugh  of  Hard-pan  Henry  and 
the  teasing  tones  of  his  inamorata.  The  visits  of  the 
Black  Prince  to  this  box  with  fresh  bottles  had  been 
fast  and  furious,  and  at  last  I  heard  the  woman  cry 
in  a  querulous  voice:  "Say,  that  black  man  coming 
in  so  often  gives  me  a  pain.  Why  don't  you  order 
a  case?  " 

Then  the  man  broke  in  with  his  senile  laugh : 

"  All  right.  Lulu,  whatever  you  say  goes.  Say, 
Prince,  tote  along  a  case,  will  you?  " 

Surely,  thought  I,  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool. 

A  little  girl  was  singing,  a  little,  winsome  girl  with 
a  sweet  childish  voice  and  an  innocent  face.  How 
terribly  out  of  place  she  looked  in  that  palace  of  sin. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  351 

She  sang  a  simple,  old-world  song  full  of  homely 
pathos  and  gentle  feeling.  As  she  sang  she  looked 
down  on  those  furrowed  faces,  and  I  saw  that  many 
eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears.  The  rough  men  lis- 
tened in  rapt  silence  as  the  childish  treble  rang  out : 

"  Darling,  I  am  growing  old ; 
Silver  threads  among  the  gold 
Shine  upon  my  brow  to-day; 
Life  is  fading  fast  away." 

Then  from  behind  the  scenes  a  pure  alto  joined  in 
and  the  two  voices,  blending  in  exquisite  harmony, 
went  on: 

"  But,  my  darling,  you  will  be,  will  be, 
Always  young  and  fair  to  me. 
Yes,  my  darling,  you  will  be 
Always  young  and  fair  to  me." 

As  the  last  echo  died  away  the  audience  rose  as 
one  man,  and  a  shower  of  nuggets  pelted  on  the  stage. 
Here  was  something  that  touched  their  hearts,  stirred 
in  them  strange  memories  of  tenderness,  brought  be- 
fore them  half-forgotten  scenes  of  fireside  happiness. 

"  It's  a  shame  to  let  that  kid  work  in  the  halls," 
said  Miss  Labelle.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes, 
too,  and  she  hurriedly  blinked  them  away. 

Then  the  curtain  fell.  Men  were  clearing  the 
floor  for  the  dance,  so,  bidding  the  lady  adieu,  I  went 
downstairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  FOUND  the  Youth  awaiting  me. 

"  Say,  pardner,"  said  he,  "  I  was  just  getting  a 
bit  anxious  about  you.  I  thought  sure  that  fairy 
had  you  In  tow  for  a  sucker.  I'm  going  to  stay 
right  with  you,  and  you're  not  going  to  shake  me. 
See!" 

"  All  right,"  I  said;  "  come  on  and  we'll  watch  the 
dance." 

So  we  got  In  the  front  row  of  spectators,  while  be- 
hind us  the  crowd  packed  as  closely  as  matches  In  a 
box.  The  champagne  I  had  taken  had  again  aroused 
in  me  that  vivid  sense  of  joy  and  strength  and  colour. 
Again  the  lights  were  effulgent,  the  music  witch- 
ing, the  women  divine.  As  I  swayed  a  little  I 
clutched  unsteadily  at  the  Youth.  He  looked  at  me 
curiously. 

"  Brace  up,  old  man,"  he  said.  "  Guess  you're  not 
often  In  town.  You're  not  much  used  to  the  dance- 
hall  racket." 

"  No,"  I  assured  him. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  It's  the  rottenest  game 
ever.  I've  seen  more  poor  beggars  put  plumb  out 
of  business  by  the  dance-halls  than  by  all  the  saloons 
and  gambling-joints  put  together.  It's  the  game  of 
catching  the  sucker  brought  to  the  point  of  perfec- 
tion, and  there's  very  few  cases  where  It  fails." 

352 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  353 

He  perceived  I  was  listening  earnestly,  and  he 
warmed  up  to  his  subject. 

"  You  see,  the  boys  get  in  after  they've  been  out 
on  the  claim  for  six  months  at  a  stretch,  and  town 
looks  mighty  good  to  them.  The  music  sounds  awful 
nice,  and  the  women,  well,  they  look  just  like  angels. 
The  boys  are  all  right,  but  they've  got  that  mad 
craving  for  the  sight  of  a  woman  a  man  gets  after 
he's  been  off  out  in  the  Wild,  and  these  women  have 
got  the  captivation  of  men  down  to  a  fine  art.  Once 
one  of  them  gets  to  looking  at  you  with  eyes  that  eat 
right  into  you,  and  soft  white  hands,  and  pretty  coax- 
ing ways,  well,  it's  mighty  hard  to  hold  back.  A 
man's  a  fool  to  come  near  these  places  if  he's  got  a 
poke — 'cept,  like  me,  he  knows  the  ropes  and  he's 
right  onto  himself." 

The  Youth  said  this  with  quite  a  complacent  air. 
He  went  on : 

"  These  girls  work  on  a  percentage  basis.  You'll 
notice  every  time  you  buy  them  a  drink  the  waiter 
gives  them  a  check.  That  means  that  when  the 
night's  over  they  cash  in  and  get  twenty-five  per  cent. 
of  the  money  you've  spent  on  them.  That's  how 
they're  so  keen  on  ordering  fresh  bottles.  Sometimes 
they'll  say  a  bottle's  gone  flat  before  it's  empty,  and 
have  you  order  another.  Or  else  they'll  pour  half 
of  it  into  the  cuspidor  when  you're  not  looking. 
Then,  when  you  get  too  full  to  notice  the  difference, 
they'll  run  in  ginger  ale  on  you.  Or  else  they'll  get 
you  ordering  by  the  case,  and  have  half  a  dozen 
dummy  bottles  in  it.     Oh,  there's  all  kinds  of  schemes 


354  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

these  box  rustlers  are  on  to.  When  you  pay  for  a 
drink  you  toss  over  your  poke,  and  they  take  the  price 
out.  Do  you  think  they're  particular  to  a  quarter 
ounce  or  so?  No,  sir!  and  you  always  get  the  short 
end  of  it.     It's  a  bad  game  to  go  up  against." 

The  Youth  looked  at  me  as  though  proud  of  his 
superior  sophistication. 

The  floor  was  cleared.  Girls  were  now  coming 
from  behind  the  stage,  preening  themselves  and  chaff- 
ing with  the  crowd.  The  orchestra  struck  up  some 
jubilant  ragtime  that  set  the  heart  dancing  and  the 
heels  tapping  in  tune.  Brighter  than  ever  seemed 
the  lights;  more  dazzling  the  white  and  gilt  of  the 
walls.  Some  of  the  girls  were  balancing  lightly  to  a 
waltz  rhythm.  There  was  a  witching  grace  in  their 
movements,  and  the  Youth  watched  them  intently. 
He  looked  down  at  his  feet  clad  in  old  moccasins. 

"Gee,  I'd  like  just  to  have  one  spin,"  he  said; 
*'  just  one  before  I  leave  the  darned  old  country  for 
good.  I  was  always  crazy  about  dancing.  I'd  ride 
thirty  miles  to  attend  a  dance  back  home." 

His  eyes  grew  very  wistful.  Suddenly  the  music 
stopped  and  the  floor-master  came  forward.  He  was 
a  tall,  dark  man  with  a  rich  and  vibrant  baritone 
voice. 

"  That's  the  best  spieler  in  the  Yukon,"  said  the 
Youth. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  boomed  the  spieler.  "  Look 
alive  there.  Don't  keep  the  ladies  waiting.  Take 
your  hands  out  of  your  pockets  and  get  in  the  game. 
Just  going  to  begin,  a  dreamy  waltz  or  a  nice  juicy 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  355 

two-step,  whichever  you  prefer.  Hey,  professor, 
strike  up  that  waltz !  " 

Once  more  the  music  swelled  out. 

"  How's  that,  boys?  Doesn't  that  make  your  feet 
like  feathers?  Come  on,  boys!  Here  you  are  for 
the  nice,  glossy  floor  and  the  nice,  flossy  girls.  Here 
you  are !  Here  you  are !  That's  right,  select  your 
partners  !  Swing  your  honeys  !  Hurry  up  there  ! 
Just  a-goin'  to  begin.  What's  the  matter  with  you 
fellows?  Wake  up!  a  dance  won't  break  you. 
Come  on !  don't  be  a  cheap  skate.  The  girls  are  fine, 
fit  and  fairy-like,  the  music's  swell  and  the  floor's  ele- 
gant.    Come  on,  boys!  " 

There  was  a  compelling  power  in  his  voice,  and 
already  a  number  of  couples  were  waltzing  round. 
The  women  were  exquisite  in  their  grace  and  springy 
lightness.  They  talked  as  they  danced,  gazing  with 
languishing  eyes  and  siren  smiles  at  the  man  of  the 
moment. 

Some  of  them,  who  had  not  got  partners,  were  pick- 
ing out  individuals  from  the  crowd  and  coaxing  them 
to  come  forward.  A  drunken  fellow  staggered  onto 
the  floor  and  grabbed  a  girl.  She  was  young,  dainty 
and  pretty,  but  she  showed  no  repugnance  for  him. 
Round  and  round  he  cavorted,  singing  and  whooping, 
a  wild,  weird  object;  when,  suddenly,  he  tripped  and 
fell,  bringing  her  down  with  him.  The  crowd 
roared;  but  the  girl  good-naturedly  picked  him  up, 
and  led  him  off  to  the  bar. 

A  man  in  a  greasy  canvas  suit  with  mucklucks  on 
his  feet  had  gone  onto  the  floor.     His  hair  was  long 


356  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

and  matted,  his  beard  wild  and  rank.  He  was 
dancing  vehemently,  and  there  was  the  glitter  of  wild 
excitement  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  not 
bathed  for  years,  but  again  I  could  see  no  repulsion 
in  the  face  of  the  handsome  brunette  with  whom  he 
was  waltzing.  Dance  after  dance  they  had  together, 
locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

"  That's  a  '  live  one,'  "  said  the  Youth.  "  He's 
just  come  in  from  Dominion  with  a  hundred  ounces, 
and  it  won't  last  him  over  the  night.  Amber,  there, 
will  get  it  all.  She  won't  let  the  other  girls  go  near. 
He's  her  game." 

Between  dances  the  men  promenaded  to  the 
bar  and  treated  their  companions  to  a  drink.  In  the 
same  free,  trusting  way  they  threw  over  their  pokes  to 
the  bartender  and  had  the  price  weighed  out.  The 
dances  were  very  short,  and  the  drinks  very  fre- 
quent. 

Madder  and  madder  grew  the  merriment.  The 
air  was  hot;  the  odour  of  patchouli  mingled  with 
the  stench  of  stale  garments  and  the  reek  of  alcohol. 
Men  dripping  with  sweat  whirled  round  in  wild 
gyrations.  Some  of  them  danced  beautifully;  some 
merely  shuffled  over  the  floor.  It  did  not  make  any 
difference  to  the  girls.  They  were  superbly  muscular 
and  used  to  the  dragging  efforts  of  novices.  After  a 
visit  to  the  bar  back  they  came  once  more,  licking  their 
lips,  and  fell  to  with  fresh  energy. 

There  was  no  need  to  beg  the  crowd  now.  A  wave 
of  excitement  seemed  to  have  swept  over  them.  They 
clamoured  to  get  a  dance.    The  "  live  one  "  whooped 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  357 

and  pranced  on  his  wild  career,  while  Amber  steered 
him  calmly  through  the  mazes  of  the  waltz.  Touch- 
the-Button-Nell  was  talking  to  a  tall  fair-moustached 
man  whom  I  recognised  as  a  black-jack  booster.  Sud- 
denly she  left  him  and  came  over  to  us.  She  went 
up  to  the  Youth. 

She  had  discarded  her  blond  wig,  and  her  pretty 
brown  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  rippled  behind 
her  ears.  Her  large  violet-blue  eyes  had  a  devour- 
ing look  that  would  stir  the  pulse  of  a  saint.  She 
accosted  the  Youth  with  a  smile  of  particular 
witchery. 

"  Say,  kid,  won't  you  come  and  have  a  two-step 
with  me?  I've  been  looking  at  you  for  the  last  half- 
hour  and  wishing  you'd  ask  me." 

The  Youth  had  advised  me:  "  If  any  of  them  asks 
you,  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil;  "  but  now  he  looked 
at  her  and  his  boyish  face  flushed. 

"  Nothing  doing,"  he  said  stoutly. 

*' Oh,  come  now,"  she  pleaded;  "  honest  to  good- 
ness, kid,  I've  turned  down  the  other  fellow  for  you. 
You  won't  refuse  me,  will  you?  Come  on;  just  one, 
sweetheart." 

She  was  holding  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  drag- 
ging him  gently  forward.  I  could  see  him  biting  his 
lip  in  embarrassment. 

"  No,  thanks,  I'm  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "  I  don't 
know  how  to  dance.     Besides,  I've  got  no  money." 

She  grew  more  coaxing. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  coin,  honey.  Come  on, 
have  one  on  me.     Don't  turn  me  down,  I've  taken 


358  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

such   a   notion   to   you.     Come   on   now;   just   one 


turn." 


I  watched  his  face.  His  eyes  clouded  with  emo- 
tion, and  I  knew  the  psychology  of  it.  He  was  think- 
ing: 

"  Just  one — surely  it  wouldn't  hurt.  Surely  I'm 
man  enough  to  trust  myself,  to  know  when  to  quit. 
Oh,  lordy,  wouldn't  it  be  sweet  just  to  get  my  arm 
round  a  woman's  waist  once  more !  The  sight  of 
them's  honey  to  me;  surely  it  wouldn't  matter.  One 
round  and  I'll  shake  her  and  go  home." 

The  hesitation  was  fatal.  By  an  irresistible  mag- 
netism the  Youth  was  drawn  to  this  woman  whose 
business  it  ever  was  to  lure  and  beguile.  By  her  siren 
strength  she  conquered  him  as  she  had  conquered 
many  another,  and  as  she  led  him  off  there  was  a 
look  of  triumph  on  her  face.  Poor  Youth !  At  the 
end  of  the  dance  he  did  not  go  home,  nor  did  he 
"  shake  "  her.  He  had  another  and  another  and 
another.  The  excitement  began  to  paint  his  cheeks, 
the  drink  to  stoke  wild  fires  in  his  eyes.  As  I  stood 
deserted  I  tried  to  attract  him,  to  get  him  back;  but 
he  no  longer  heeded  me. 

"  I  don't  see  the  Madonna  to-night,"  said  a  little, 
dark  individual  in  spectacles.  Somehow  he  looked 
to  me  like  a  newspaper  man  "  chasing  "  copy. 

"No,"  said  one  of  the  girls;  "she  ain't  workin'. 
She's  sick;  she  don't  take  very  kindly  to  the  business, 
somehow.  Don't  seem  to  get  broke  in  easy.  She's 
funny,  poor  kid." 

Carelessly  they  went  on  to  talk  of  other  things, 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  359 

while  I  stood  there  gasping,  staring,  sick  at  heart. 
All  my  vinous  joy  was  gone,  leaving  me  a  haggard, 
weary  wretch  of  a  man,  disenchanted  and  miserable 
to  the  verge  of — what?  I  shuddered.  The  lights 
seemed  to  have  gone  blurred  and  dim.  The  hall  was 
tawdry,  cheap  and  vulgar.  The  women,  who  but  a 
moment  before  had  seemed  creatures  of  grace  and 
charm,  were  now  nothing  more  than  painted,  postur- 
ing harridans,  their  seductive  smiles  the  leers  of 
shameless  sin. 

And  this  was  a  Dawson  dance-hall,  the  trump  card 
in  the  nightly  game  of  despoliation.  Dance-halls, 
saloons,  gambling-dens,  brothels,  the  heart  of  the 
town  was  a  cancer,  a  hive  of  Iniquity.  Here  had 
flocked  the  mos-t  rapacious  of  gamblers,  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  unscrupulous  women  on  the  Pacific  slope. 
Here  In  the  gold-born  city  they  waited  for  their  prey, 
the  Man  with  the  Poke.  Back  there  in  the  silent 
Wild,  with  pain  and  bloody  sweat,  he  tolled  for 
them.  Sooner  or  later  must  he  come  within  reach 
of  their  talons  to  be  fleeced,  flouted  and  despoiled. 
It  was  an  organised  system  of  sharpers,  thugs,  harpies, 
and  birds  of  prey  of  every  kind.  It  was  a  blot 
on  the  map.  It  was  a  great  whirlpool,  and  the 
eddy  of  It  encircled  the  furthest  outpost  of  the 
golden  valley.  It  was  a  vortex  of  destruction, 
of  ruin  and  shame.  And  here  was  I,  hovering  on  Its 
brink,  likely  to  be  soon  sucked  down  into  its  depths. 

I  pressed  my  way  to  the  door,  and  stood  there 
staring  and  swaying,  but  whether  with  wine  or  weak- 
ness I  knew  not.     In  the  vociferous  and  flamboyant 


36o  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

street  I  could  hear  the  raucous  voices  of  the  spielers, 
the  jigging  tunes  of  the  orchestras,  the  click  of  ivory 
balls,  the  popping  of  corks,  the  hoarse,  animal  laugh- 
ter of  men,  the  shrill,  inane  giggles  of  women.  Day 
and  night  the  game  went  on  without  abatement,  the 
game  of  despoliation. 

And  I  was  on  the  verge  of  the  vortex.  Memories 
of  Glengyle,  the  laughing  of  the  silver-scaled  sea,  the 
tawny  fisher-lads  with  their  honest  eyes,  the  herring 
glittering  like  jewels  in  the  brown  nets,  the  women 
with  their  round  health-hued  cheeks  and  motherly 
eyes.  Oh,  Home,  with  your  peace  and  rest  and  con- 
tent, can  you  not  save  me  from  this? 

And  as  I  stood  there  wretchedly  a  timid  little  hand 
touched  my  arm. 


CHAPTER  V 

It  is  odd  how  people  who  have  been  parted  a  weary 
while,  yet  who  have  thought  of  each  other  constantly, 
will  often  meet  with  as  little  show  of  feeling  as  if  they 
had  but  yesterday  bid  good-bye.  I  looked  at  her  and 
she  at  me,  and  I  don't  think  either  of  us  betrayed  any 
emotion.  Yet  must  we  both  have  been  infinitely 
moved. 

She  was  changed,  desperately,  pitifully  changed. 
All  the  old  sweetness  was  there,  that  pathetic  sweet- 
ness which  had  made  the  miners  call  her  the 
Madonna;  but  alas,  forever  gone  from  her  was  the 
fragrant  flower  of  girlhood.  Her  pallor  was  ex- 
cessive, and  the  softness  had  vanished  out  of  her  face, 
leaving  there  only  lines  of  suffering.  Sorrow  had 
kindled  in  her  grey  eyes  a  spiritual  lustre,  a  shining, 
tearless  brightness.  Ah  me,  sad,  sad,  indeed,  was 
the  change  in  her! 

So  she  looked  at  me,  a  long  and  level  look  in 
which  I  could  see  neither  love  nor  hate.  The  bright, 
grey  eyes  were  clear  and  steady,  and  the  pinched  and 
pitiful  lips  did  not  quiver.  And  as  I  gazed  on  her  I 
felt  that  nothing  ever  would  be  the  same  again.  Love 
could  no  more  be  the  radiant  spirit  of  old,  the 
prompter  of  impassioned  words,  the  painter  of  be- 
witching scenes.  Never  again  could  we  feel  the  world 
recede  from  us  as  we  poised  on  bright  wings  of  fancy; 

361 


362  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

never  again  compare  our  joy  with  that  of  the  heaven- 
born;  never  again  welcome  that  pure  ideal  that  comes 
to  youth  alone,  and  that  pitifully  dies  in  the  disen- 
chantment of  graver  days.  We  could  sacrifice  all 
things  for  each  other;  joy  and  grieve  for  each  other; 
live  and  die  for  each  other, — but  the  Hope,  the 
Dream,  the  exaltation  of  love's  dawn,  the  peerless 
white  glory  of  it — had  gone  from  us  forever  and  for- 
ever. 

Her  lips  moved: 

"  How  you  have  changed!  " 

"  Yes,  Berna,  I  have  been  ill.  But  you,  you  too 
have  changed." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  very  slowly.  "  I  have  been — 
dead." 

There  was  no  faltering  In  her  voice,  never  a  throb 
of  pathos.  It  was  like  the  voice  of  one  who  has  given 
up  all  hope,  the  voice  of  one  who  has  arisen  from 
the  grave.  In  that  cold  mask  of  a  face  I  could 
see  no  glimmer  of  the  old-time  joy,  the  joy  of  the 
season  when  wild  roses  were  aglow.  We  both 
were  silent,  two  pitifully  cold  beings,  while  about  us 
the  howling  bedlam  of  pleasure-plotters  surged  and 
seethed. 

"  Com.e  upstairs  where  we  can  talk,"  said  she.  So 
we  sat  down  in  one  of  the  boxes,  while  a  great  freez- 
ing shadow  seemed  to  fall  and  wrap  us  around.  It 
was  so  strange,  this  silence  between  us.  We  were 
like  two  pale  ghosts  meeting  in  the  misty  gulfs  be- 
yond the  grave, 

"  And  why  did  you  not  come?  "  she  asked. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  363 

"  Come — I  tried  to  come." 

"  But  you  did  not."  Her  tone  was  measured,  her 
face  averted. 

"  I  would  have  sold  my  soul  to  come.  I  was  ill, 
desperately  ill,  nigh  to  death.  I  was  in  the  hospital. 
For  two  weeks  I  was  delirious,  raving  of  you,  trying 
to  get  to  you,  making  myself  a  hundred  times 
worse  because  of  you.  But  what  could  I  do?  No 
man  could  have  been  more  helpless.  I  was  out  of 
my  mind,  weak  as  a  child,  fighting  for  my  life. 
That  was  why  I  did  not  come." 

When  I  began  to  speak  she  started.  As  I  went 
on  she  drew  a  quick,  choking  breath.  Then  she  lis- 
tened ever  so  intently,  and  when  I  had  finished  a  great 
change  came  over  her.  Her  eyes  stared  glassily,  her 
head  dropped,  her  hands  clutched  at  the  chair,  she 
seemed  nigh  to  fainting.  When  she  spoke  her  voice 
was  like  a  whisper. 

"  And  they  lied  to  me.  They  told  me  you  were 
too  eager  gold-getting  to  think  of  me;  that  you  were 
in  love  with  some  other  woman  out  there;  that  you 
cared  no  more  for  me.  They  lied  to  me.  Well,  it's 
too  late  now." 

She  laughed,  and  the  once  tuneful  voice  was  harsh 
and  grating.  Still  were  her  eyes  blank  with  misery. 
Again  and  again  she  murmured:  "Too  late,  too 
late." 

Quietly  I  sat  and  watched  her,  yet  in  my  heart  was 
a  vast  storm  of  agony.  I  longed  to  comfort  her,  to 
kiss  that  face  so  white  and  worn  and  weariful,  to 
bring  tears  to  those  hopeless  eyes.     There  seemed  to 


364  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

grow  in  me  a  greater  hunger  for  the  girl  than  ever 
before,  a  longing  to  bring  joy  to  her  again,  to  make 
her  forget.  What  did  it  all  matter?  She  was  still 
my  love.  I  yearned  for  her.  We  both  had  suffered, 
both  been  through  the  furnace.  Surely  from  it  would 
come  the  love  that  passeth  understanding.  We  would 
rear  no  lily  walls,  but  out  of  our  pain  would  we  build 
an  abiding  place  that  would  outlast  the  tomb. 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  it  is  not  too  late." 

There  was  a  desperate  bitterness  in  her  face.  "  Yes, 
yes,  it  is.  You  do  not  understand.  You — it's  all 
right  for  you,  you  are  blameless;  but  I " 

"  You  too  are  blameless,  dear.  We  have  both 
been  miserably  duped.  Never  mind,  Berna,  we  will 
forget  all.  I  love  you.  Oh  how  much  I  never  can 
tell  you,  girl !  Come,  let  us  forget  and  go  away  and 
be  happy." 

It  seemed  as  If  my  every  word  was  like  a  stab  to 
her.     The  sweet  face  was  tragically  wretched. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  answered,  "  it  can  never  be.  You 
think  it  can,  but  it  can't.  You  could  not  forget.  I 
could  not  forget.  We  would  both  be  thinking;  al- 
ways, always  torturing  each  other.  To  you  the 
thought  would  be  like  a  knife  thrust,  and  the  more 
you  loved  me  the  deeper  would  pierce  its  blade.  And 
I,  too,  can  you  not  realise  how  fearfully  I  would  look 
at  you,  always  knowing  you  were  thinking  of  THAT, 
and  what  an  agony  it  would  be  to  me  to  watch  your 
agony?  Our  home  would  be  a  haunted  one,  a  place 
of  ghosts.  Never  again  can  there  be  joy  between 
you  and  me.     It's  too  late,  too  late !  " 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  365 

She  was  choking  back  the  sobs  now,  but  still  the 
tears  did  not  come. 

*'  Berna,"  I  said  gently,  "  I  think  I  could  forget. 
Please  give  me  a  chance  to  prove  It.  Other  men 
have  forgotten.  I  know  It  was  not  your  fault.  I 
know  that  spiritually  you  are  the  same  pure  girl  you 
were  before.     You  are  an  angel,  dear;  my  angel." 

"  No,  I  was  not  to  blame.  When  you  failed  to 
come  I  grew  desperate.  When  I  wrote  you  and  still 
you  failed  to  come  I  was  almost  distracted.  Night 
and  day  he  was  persecuting  me.  The  others  gave 
me  no  peace.  If  ever  a  poor  girl  was  hounded  to 
dishonour  I  was.  Yet  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
die  rather  than  yield.     Oh,  it's  too  horrible." 

She  shuddered. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  don't  tell  me  about  It." 

"  When  I  awoke  to  life  sick,  sick  for  many  days,  I 
wanted  to  die,  but  I  could  not.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  for  it  but  to  stay  on  there.  I  was  so  weak, 
so  ill,  so  indifferent  to  everything  that  it  did  not  seem 
to  matter.  That  was  where  I  made  my  mistake.  I 
should  have  killed  myself.  Oh,  there's  something 
in  us  all  that  makes  us  cling  to  life  In  spite  of  shame! 
But  I  would  never  let  him  come  near  me  again.  You 
believe  me,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  believe  you." 

"  And  though,  when  he  went  away,  I've  gone  Into 
this  life,  there's  never  been  any  one  else.  I've  danced 
with  them,  laughed  with  them,  but  that's  all.  You 
believe  me?  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 


366  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"Thank  God  for  that!  And  now  we  must  say 
good-bye." 

"Good-bye?'' 

"  I  said — good-bye.  I  would  not  spoil  your  life. 
You  know  how  proud  I  am,  how  sensitive.  I  would 
not  give  you  such  as  I.  Once  I  would  have  given 
myself  to  you  gladly,  but  now^please  go  away." 

"  Impossible." 

"  No,  the  other  is  impossible.  You  don't  know 
what  these  things  mean  to  a  woman.  Leave  me, 
please." 

"  Leave  you — to  what?  " 

*'  To  death,  ruin — I  don't  know  what.  If  I'm 
strong  enough  I  will  die.  If  I  am  weak  I  will  sink 
in  the  mire.  Oh,  and  I  am  only  a  girl  too,  a  young 
girl !  " 

"  Berna,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"No!     No!     No!" 

"  Berna,  I  will  never  leave  you.  Here  I  tell  you 
frankly,  plainly,  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  you 
still  love  me — you  haven't  said  a  word  to  show  it — 
but  I  know  I  love  you,  and  I  will  love  you  as  long 
as  life  lasts.  I  will  never  leave  you.  Listen  to  me, 
dear:  let  us  go  away,  far,  far  away.  You  will  for- 
get, I  will  forget.  It  will  never  be  the  same,  but 
perhaps  it  will  be  better,  greater  than  before.  Come 
with  me,  O  my  love !  Have  pity  on  me,  Berna,  have 
pity.      Marry  me.      Be  my  wife." 

She  merely  shook  her  head,  sitting  there  cold  as  a 
stone. 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  if  you  call  yourself  dishonoured, 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  367 

I  too  will  become  dishonoured.  If  you  choose  to 
sink  in  the  mire,  I  too  will  sink.  We  will  go  down 
together,  you  and  I.  Oh,  I  would  rather  sink  with 
you,  dear,  than  rise  with  the  angels.  You  have 
chosen — well,  I  too  have  chosen.  We  stand  on  the 
edge  of  the  vortex,  now  will  we  plunge  down.  You 
will  see  me  steep  myself  in  shame,  then  when  I  am  a 
hundred  shades  blacker  than  you  can  ever  hope  to  be, 
my  angel,  you  will  stoop  and  pity  me.  Oh,  I  don't 
care  any  more.  I've  played  the  fool  too  long;  now 
I'll  play  the  devil,  and  you'll  stand  by  and  watch  me. 
Sometimes  it's  nice  to  make  those  we  love  suffer, 
isn't  it  ?  I  would  break  my  arm  to  make  you  feel 
sorry  for  me.  But  now  you'll  see  me  in  the  vortex. 
We'll  go  down  together,  dear.  Hand  in  hand  hell- 
ward  we'll  go  down,  we'll  go  down." 

She  was  looking  at  me  in  a  frightened  way.  A 
madness  seemed  to  have  gotten  into  me. 

"  Berna,  you're  on  the  dance-halls.  You're  at  the 
mercy  of  the  vilest  wretch  that's  got  an  ounce  of 
gold  in  his  filthy  poke.  They  can  buy  you  as  they  buy 
white  flesh  everywhere  on  earth.  You  must  dance 
with  them,  drink  with  them,  go  away  with  them. 
Berna,  I  can  buy  you.  Come,  dance  with  me,  drink 
with  me.  We'll  live,  live.  We'll  eat,  drink  and  be 
merry.  On  with  the  dance!  Oh,  for  the  joy  of 
life!  Since  you'll  not  be  my  love  you'll  be  my  light- 
of-love.      Come,  Berna,  come!  " 

I  paused.  With  her  head  lying  on  the  cushioned 
edge  of  the  box  she  was  crying.  The  plush  was 
streaky  with  her  tears. 


368  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Will  you  come?  "  I  asked  again. 

She  did  not  move. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "  there  are  others,  and  I  have 
money,  lots  of  it.  I  can  buy  them.  I  am  going 
down  into  the  vortex.     Look  on  and  watch  me." 

I  left  her  crying. 


CHAPTER  VI 

It  is  with  shame  I  write  the  following  pages.  Would 
I  could  blot  them  out  of  my  life.  To  this  day  there 
must  be  many  who  remember  my  meteoric  career  in 
the  firmament  of  fast  life.  It  did  not  last  long,  but 
in  less  than  a  week  I  managed  to  squander  a  small 
fortune. 

Those  were  the  days  when  Dawson  might  fitly 
have  been  called  the  dissolute.  It  was  the  regime  of 
the  dance-hall  girl,  and  the  taint  of  the  tenderloin  was 
over  the  town.  So  far  there  were  few  decent  women 
to  be  seen  on  the  streets.  Respectable  homes  were  be- 
ing established,  but  even  there  social  evils  were  dis- 
cussed with  an  astonishing  frankness  and  indifference. 
In  the  best  society  men  were  welcomed  who  were 
known  to  be  living  in  open  infamy.  A  general  cal- 
lousness to  social  corruption  prevailed. 

For  Dawson  was  at  this  time  the  Mecca  of  the 
gambler  and  the  courtesan.  Of  its  population  prob- 
ably two-thirds  began  their  day  when  most  people 
finished  it.  It  was  only  towards  nightfall  that  the 
town  completely  roused  up,  that  the  fever  of  pleasure 
providing  began.  Nearly  every  one  seemed  to  be  af- 
fected by  the  spirit  of  degeneracy.  On  the  faces  of 
many  of  the  business  men  could  be  seen  the  stamp  of 
the  pace  they  were  going.  Cases  in  Court  had  to  be  ad- 
journed because  of  the  debauches  of  lawyers.     Bank 

369 


370  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

tellers  stepped  into  their  cages  sleepless  from  all-night 
orgies.  Government  officials  lived  openly  with  wan- 
ton women.  High  and  low  were  attainted  by  the 
corruption.  In  those  days  of  headstrong  excitement, 
of  sudden  fortune,  of  money  to  be  had  almost  for  the 
picking  up,  when  the  gold-camp  was  a  reservoir  into 
which  poured  by  a  thousand  channels  the  treasure  of 
the  valley,  few  were  those  among  the  men  who  kept 
a  steady  head,  whose  private  records  were  pure  and 
blameless. 

No  town  of  its  size  has  ever  broken  up  more  homes. 
Men  in  the  intoxication  of  fast-won  wealth  in  that 
far-away  land  gave  way  to  excesses  of  every  kind. 
Fathers  of  families  paraded  the  streets  arm  in  arm 
with  demi-mondaines.  To  be  seen  talking  to  a  loose 
woman  was  unworthy  of  comment,  not  to  have  a 
mistress  was  not  to  be  in  the  swim.  Words  cannot 
express  the  infinite  and  general  degradation.  It  is 
scarcely  possible  to  exaggerate  it.  That  teeming 
town  at  the  mouth  of  the  Klondike  set  a  pace  In 
libertinism  that  has  never  been  equalled. 

I  would  divide  its  population  into  three  classes: 
the  sporting  fraternity,  whose  business  it  was  to 
despoil  and  betray;  the  business  men,  drawn  more  or 
less  into  the  vortex  of  dissipation;  the  miners  from 
the  creeks,  the  Man  with  the  Poke,  here  to-day,  gone 
to-morrow,  and  of  them  all  the  most  worthy  of  re- 
spect. He  was  the  prop  and  mainstay  of  the  town. 
It  was  like  a  vast  trap  set  to  catch  him.  He  would 
"blow  in"  brimming  with  health  and  high  spirits; 
for  a  time  he  would  "  get  into  the  game;  "  sooner  or 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  371 

later  he  would  cut  loose  and  "  hit  the  high  places  "; 

then,  at  last,  beggared  and  broken,  he  would  crawl 

back  in  shame  and  sorrow  to  the  claim.     O,  that  grey 

city!  could  it  ever  tell  its  woes  and  sorrows  the  great, 

white    stars    above   would   melt   into    compassionate 

tears. 

Ah  well,  to  the  devil  with  all  moralising!     A  short 

life  and  a  merry  one.     Switch  on  the  lights !      Ring 

up  the  curtain  !     On  with  the  play  ! 

****** 

In  the  casino  a  crowd  is  gathering  round  the 
roulette  wheel.  Three-deep  they  stand.  A  woman 
rushes  out  from  the  dance-hall  and  pushes  her  way 
through  the  throng.  She  is  very  young,  very  fair 
and  redundant  of  life.  A  man  jostles  her.  From 
frank  blue  eyes  she  flashes  a  look  at  him,  and  from 
lips  sweet  as  those  of  a  child  there  comes  the  re- 
monstrance: "Curse  you;  take  care." 

The  men  make  way  for  her,  and  she  throws  a 
poke  of  dust  on  the  red.  "  A  hundred  dollars  out 
of  that,"  she  says.  The  coupier  nods;  the  wheel 
spins  round;  she  loses. 

"  Give  me  another  two  hundred  in  chips,"  she  cries 
eagerly.  The  dealer  hands  them  to  her,  and  puts 
her  poke  in  a  drawer.  Again  and  again  she  plays, 
placing  chips  here  and  there  round  the  table.  Some- 
times she  wins,  sometimes  she  loses.  At  last  she  has 
quite  a  pile  of  chips  before  her.  She  laughs  gleefully. 
"  I  guess  I'll  cash  in  now,"  she  says.  "  That's  good 
enough  for  to-night." 

The  man  hands  her  back  her  poke,  writes  out  a 


372  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

cheque  for  her  winnings,  and  off  she  goes  Hke  a  happy 
child. 

"Who's  that?"  I  ask. 

"That?  that's  Blossom.  She's  a  '  bute,  '  she  is. 
Want  a  knockdown?  Come  on  round  to  the  dance- 
hall." 

Once  more  I  see  the  Youth.  He  is  nearing  the  end 
of  his  tether.  He  borrows  a  few  hundred  dollars 
from  me.  "  One  more  night,"  he  says  with  a  bitter 
grin,  "  and  the  hog  goes  back  to  wallow  in  the  mire. 

They've  got  you  going  too Oh,   Lord,   it's  a 

great  game  !     Ha  !  ha  !  " 

He  goes  off  unsteadily;  then  from  out  of  the 
luminous  mists  there  appears  the  Jam-wagon.  In  a 
pained  way  he  looks  at  me.  "  Here,  chuck  it,  old 
man,"  he  says;  "come  home  to  my  cabin  and 
straighten  up." 

"All  right,"  I  answer;  "just  one  drink  more." 

One  more  means  still  one  more.  Poor  old  Jam- 
wagon  !      It's  the  blind  leading  the  blind. 

Mosher  haunts  me  with  his  gleaming  bald  head  and 
his  rat-like  eyes.  He  is  living  with  the  little  ninety- 
five-pound  woman,  the  one  with  the  mop  of  hair. 

Oh,  it  is  a  hades  of  a  life  I  am  steeped  in  !  I  drink 
and  I  drink.  It  seems  to  me  I  am  always  drinking. 
Rarely  do  I  eat.  I  am  one  of  half  a  dozen  spec- 
tacular "  live  ones."  All  the  camp  is  talking  of  us, 
but  it  seems  to  me  I  lead  the  bunch  in  the  race  to  ruin. 
I  wonder  what  Berna  thinks  of  it  all.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  sensitive  creature?     Where  did  she  get 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  373 

that  obstinate  pride?  Child  of  misfortune!  She 
minded  me  of  a  delicate  china  cup  that  gets  mixed  in 
with  the  coarse  crockery  of  a  hash  joint. 

Remonstrantly  the  Prodigal  speeds  to  town. 

"  Are  you  crazy?  "  he  cries.  "  I  don't  mind  you 
making  an  ass  of  yourself,  but  lushing  around  all 
that  coin  the  way  you're  doing — it's  wicked;  it  makes 
me  sick.      Come  home  at  once." 

"  I  won't,"  I  say.  "  What  if  I  am  crazy?  Isn't  it 
my  money?  I've  never  sown  my  wild  oats  yet.  I'm 
trying  to  catch  up,  that's  all.  When  the  money's 
done  I'll  quit.  I'm  having  the  time  of  my  life. 
Don't  come  spoiling  it  with  your  precepts.  What  a 
lot  of  fun  I've  missed  by  being  good.  Come  along; 
'  listen  to  the  last  word  of  human  philosophy — have 
a  drink.'  " 

He  goe§  away  shaking  his  head.  There's  no  fear 
of  him  ever  breaking  loose.  He,  with  his  smile  of 
sunshine,  would  make  misfortune  pay.  He  is  a  roll- 
ing stone  that  gathers  no  moss,  but  manages  to  glue 

itself  to  greenbacks  at  every  turn. 

****** 

I  am  in  a  box  at  the  Palace  Grand.  The  place 
is  packed  with  rowdy  men  and  ribald  women.  I  am 
at  the  zenith  of  my  shame.  Right  and  left  I  am 
buying  wine.  Like  vultures  at  a  feast  they  bunch 
into  the  box.  Like  carrion  flies  they  buzz  around 
me.     That  is  what  I  feel  myself  to  be — carrion. 

How  I  loathe  myself!  but  I  think  of  Berna,  and 
the  thought  goads  me  to  fresh  excesses.  I  will  go  on 
till  flesh  and  blood  can  stand  it  no  longer,  till  I  drop 


374  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

in  my  tracks.  I  realise  that  somehow  I  must  make 
her  pity  me,  must  awake  in  her  that  guardian  angel 
which  exists  in  every  woman.  Only  in  that  way  can 
I  break  down  the  barrier  of  her  pride  and  arouse  the 
love  latent  in  her  heart. 

There  are  half  a  dozen  girls  in  the  box,  a  bevy  of 
beauties,  and  I  buy  a  case  of  wine  for  each,  over  a 
thousand  dollars'  worth.  Screaming  with  laughter 
they  toss  it  in  bottles  down  to  their  friends  in  the  audi- 
ence. It  is  a  scene  of  riotous  excitement.  The  audi- 
ence roars,  the  girls  shriek,  the  orchestra  tries  to 
make  itself  heard.  Madder  and  madder  grows  the 
merriment.  The  fierce  fever  of  it  scorches  in  my 
veins.  I  am  mad  to  spend,  to  throw  away  money,  to 
outdo  all  others  in  bitter,  reckless  prodigality.  I 
fling  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  to  the  singers.  I  open 
bottle  after  bottle  of  wine.  The  girls  are  spraying 
the  crowd  with  it,  the  floor  of  the  box  swims  with  it. 
I  drop  my  pencil  signing  a  tab,  and  when  I  look  down 
It  is  floating  in  a  pool  of  champagne. 

Then  comes  the  last.  The  dance  has  begun. 
Men  in  fur  caps,  mackinaw  coats  and  mucklucks  are 
waltzing  with  women  clad  in  Paris  gowns  and  spark- 
ling with  jewels.  The  floor  is  thronged.  I  have 
a  large,  hundred-ounce  poke  of  dust,  and  I  unloose 
the  thong.  Suddenly  with  a  mad  shout  I  scatter  its 
contents  round  the  hall.  Like  a  shovv^er  of  golden 
rain  it  falls  on  men  and  women  alike.  See  how  they 
grovel  for  it,  the  brutes,  the  vampires !  How  they 
fight  and  grab  and  sprawl  over  it !  How  they  shriek 
and  howl  and  curse !      It  is  like  an  arena  of  wild 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  375 

beasts;  it  is  pandemonium.  Oh,  how  I  despise  them ! 
My  gorge  rises,  but — to  the  end,  to  the  end.  I  must 
play  my  part. 

****** 

Always  amid  that  lurid  carnival  of  sin  floats  the 
figure  of  Blossom,  Blossom  with  her  child-face  of 
dazzling  fairness,  her  china-blue  eyes,  her  round, 
smooth  cheeks.  How  different  from  the  pinched 
palid  face  of  Berna !  Poor,  poor  Berna  !  I  never 
see  her,  but  amid  all  the  saturnalia  she  haunts  me. 
The  thought  of  her  is  agony,  agony.  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  her.  I  know  she  watches  me.  If  she 
would  only  stoop  and  save  me  now!  Or  have  Inot 
fallen  low  enough  ?  What  a  faith  I  have  in  that  deep 
mother-love  of  hers  that  will  redeem  me  in  the  end. 
I  must  go  deeper  yet.  Faster  and  faster  must  I  swirl 
into  the  vortex. 

Oh,  these  women,  how  in  my  heart  I  loathe  them! 

I  laugh  with  them,   I  quaff  with  them,   I  let  them 

rob  me;  but  that's  all. 

****** 

In  all  that  fierce  m.adness  of  debauch,  thank  God, 
I  retained  my  honour.  They  beguiled  me,  they  tried 
to  lure  me  into  their  rooms;  but  at  the  moment  I  went 
to  enter  I  recoiled.  It  was  as  if  an  invisible  arm 
stretched  across  the  doorway  and  barred  me  out. 

And  Blossom,  she,  too,  tried  so  hard  to  lure  me, 
and  because  I  resisted  it  inflamed  her.  Half  anffel, 
half  devil  was  Blossom,  a  girl  in  years,  but  woefully 
wise,  a  soft  siren  when  pleased,  a  she-devil  when 
roused.     She    made    me    her    special    quarry.     She 


376  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

fought  for  me.  She  drove  off  all  the  other  girls. 
We  talked  together,  we  drank  together,  we  "  played 
the  tables  "  together,  but  nothing  more.  She  would 
coax  me  with  the  prettiest  gestures,  and  cajole  me 
with  the  sweetest  endearments;  then,  when  I  stead- 
fastly resisted  her,  she  would  fly  Into  a  fury  and  flout 
me  with  the  foulness  of  the  stews.  She  was  beauti- 
ful, but  born  to  be  bad.  No  power  on  heaven  or 
earth  could  have  saved  her.  Yet  in  her  badness  she 
was  frank,  natural  and  untroubled  as  a  child. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  corridors  of  the  dance-hall  in 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning.  The  place  was  de- 
serted, strewed  with  debris  of  the  night's  debauch. 
The  air  was  fetid,  and  from  the  gambling-hall  down 
below  arose  the  shouts  of  the  players.  We  were  up 
there,  Blossom  and  I.  I  was  in  a  strange  state  of 
mind,  a  state  bordering  on  frenzy.  Not  much 
longer,  I  felt,  could  I  keep  up  this  pace.  Something 
had  to  happen,  and  that  soon. 

She  put  her  arms  around  me.  I  could  feel  her 
cheek  pressed  to  mine.  I  could  see  her  bosom  rise 
and  fall. 

"  Come,"  she  said. 

She  led  me  towards  her  room.  No  longer  was  I 
able  to  resist.  My  foot  was  on  the  threshold  and 
I  was  almost  over  when 

'*  Telegram,  sir." 

It  was  a  messenger.  Confusedly  I  took  the  flimsy 
envelope  and  tore  it  open.  Blankly  I  stared  at  the 
line  of  type.  I  stared  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  I  was 
sober  enough  now. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  377 

"Ain't  you  coming?"  said  Blossom,  putting  her 
arms  round  me. 

"  No,"  I  said  hoarsely,  "  leave  me,  please  leave  me. 
Oh,  my  God!" 

Her  face  changed,  became  vindictive,  the  face  of  a 
fury. 

"  Curse  you !  "  she  hissed,  gnashing  her  teeth. 
"  Oh,  I  knew.  It's  that  other,  that  white-faced  doll 
you  care  for.  Look  at  me!  Am  I  not  better  than 
her?  And  you  scorn  me.  Oh,  I  hate  you.  I'll  get 
even  with  you  and  her.      Curse  you,  curse  you " 

She  snatched  up  an  empty  wine  bottle.  Swinging 
It  by  the  neck  she  struck  me  square  on  the  forehead. 
I  felt  a  stunning  blow,  a  warm  rush  of  blood.  Then 
I  fell  limply  forward,  and  all  the  lights  seemed  to 
go  out. 

There  I  lay  in  a  heap,  and  the  blood  spurting  from 
my  wound  soaked  the  little  piece  of  paper.  On  it 
was  written : 

"Mother  died  this  morning.     Garry." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"Where  am  I?" 

"  Here,  with  me." 

Low  and  sweet  and  tender  was  the  voice.  I  was 
in  bed  and  my  head  was  heavily  bandaged,  so  that 
the  cloths  weighed  upon  my  eyehds.  It  was  dif- 
ficult to  see,  and  I  was  too  weak  to  raise  myself,  but 
I  seemed  to  be  in  semi-darkness.  A  lamp  burning 
on  a  small  table  nearby  was  turned  low.  By  my  bed- 
side some  one  was  sitting,  and  a  soft,  gentle  hand 
was  holding  mine. 

"  Where  is  here?"  I  asked  faintly. 

"  Here— my  cabin.      Rest,  dear." 

"  Is  that  you,  Berna?" 

"  Yes,  please  don't  talk." 

I  thrilled  with  a  sudden  sweetness  of  joy.  A 
flood  of  sunshine  bathed  me.  It  was  all  over,  then, 
the. turmoil,  the  storm,  the  shipwreck.  I  was  drifting 
on  a  tranquil  ocean  of  content.  Blissfully  I  closed 
my  eyes.     Oh,  I  was  happy,  happy! 

In  her  cabin,  with  her,  and  she  was  nursing  me — 
what  had  happened?  What  new  turn  of  events  had 
brought  about  this  wonderful  thing?  As  I  lay  there 
in  the  quiet,  trying  to  recall  the  something  that  went 
before,  my  poor  sick  brain  groped  but  feebly  amid  a 
murk  of  sinister  shadows. 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  I've  had  a  bad  dream." 

378 


THE   TRAIL   OF    '98  379 

"  Yes,  dear,  you've  been  sick,  very  sick.  You've 
had  an  attack  of  fever,  brain  fever.  But  don't  try 
to  think,  just  rest  quietly." 

So  for  a  while  longer  I  lay  there,  thrilled  with  a 
strange  new  joy,  steeped  in  the  ineffable  comfort  of 
her  presence,  and  growing  better,  stronger  with  every 
breath.  Memories  came  thronging  back,  memories 
that  made  me  cringe  and  wince,  and  shudder  with  the 
shame  of  them.  Yet  ever  the  thought  that  she  was 
with  me  was  like  a  holy  blessing.  Surely  it  was  all 
good  since  it  had  ended  in  this. 

Yet  there  was  something  else,  some  memory  darker 
than  the  others,  some  shadow  of  shadows  that  baffled 
me.  Then  as  I  battled  with  a  growing  terror  anH 
suspense,  it  all  came  back  to  me,  the  telegram,  the 
news,  my  collapse.  A  great  grief  welled  up  in  me, 
and  in  my  agony  I  spoke  to  the  girl. 

"  Berna,  tell  me,  is  it  true?     Is  my  Mother  dead?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  true,  dear.  You  must  try  to  bear  it 
bravely." 

I  could  feel  her  bending  over  me,  could  feel  her 
hand  holding  mine,  could  feel  her  hair  brush  my 
cheek,  yet  I  forgot  even  her  just  then.  I  thought 
only  of  Mother,  of  her  devotion  and  of  how  little  I 
had  done  to  desei-ve  it.  So  this  was  the  end :  a  nar- 
row grave,  a  rending  grief  and  the  haunting  spectre 
of  reproach. 

I  saw  my  Mother  sitting  at  that  window  that  faced 
the  west,  her  hands  meekly  folded  on  her  lap,  her 
eyes  wistfully  gazing  over  the  grey  sea.  I  knew  there 
was  never  a  day  of  her  life  vvhen  she  did  not  sit  thus 


38o        .     THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

and  think  of  me.  I  could  guess  at  the  heartache  that 
gentle  face  would  not  betray,  the  longing  those  tender 
lips  would  not  speak,  the  grief  those  sweet  eyes 
studied  to  conceal.  As,  sitting  there  in  the  strange 
clouded  sunset  of  my  native  land,  she  let  her  knitting 
drop  on  her  lap,  I  knew  she  prayed  for  me.  Oh, 
Mother!      Mother! 

My  sobs  were  choking  me,  and  Berna  was  holding 
my  hand  very  tightly.     Yet  in  a  little  I  grew  calmer. 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  I've  only  got  you  now,  only 
you,  little  girl.  So  you  must  love  me,  you  mustn't 
leave  me." 

"  I'll  never  leave  you — if  you  want  me  to  stay." 

''  God  bless  you,  dear.  I  can't  tell  you  the  com- 
fort you  are  to  me.      I'll  try  to  be  quiet  now." 

I  will  always  remember  those  days  as  I  grew 
slowly  well  again.  The  cot  in  which  I  lay  stood  in 
the  sitting-room  of  the  cabin,  and  from  the  window 
I  could  overlook  the  city.  Snow  had  fallen,  the  days 
were  diamond  bright,  and  the  smoke  ascended  sharply 
in  the  glittering  air.  The  little  room  was  papered 
with  a  design  of  wild  roses  that  minded  me  of  the 
Whitehorse  Rapids.  On  the  walls  were  some  little 
framed  pictures;  the  floor  was  carpeted  in  dull  brown, 
and  a  little  heater  gave  out  a  pleasant  warmth. 
Through  a  doorway  draped  with  a  curtain  I  could 
see  her  busy  in  her  little  kitchen. 

She  left  me  much  alone,  alone  with  my  thoughts. 
Often  when  all  was  quiet  I  knew  she  was  sitting  there 
beyond  the  curtain,  sitting  thinking,  just  as  I  was 
thinking.     Quiet  was  the  keynote  of  our  life,  quiet 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  381 

and  sunshine.  That  little  cabin  might  have  been  a 
hundred  miles  from  the  gold-born  city,  it  was  so 
quiet.  Here  drifted  no  echo  of  its  abandoned  gaiety, 
its  glory  of  demoralisation.  How  sweet  she  looked 
in  her  spotless  home  attire,  her  neat  waist,  her  white 
apron  with  bib  and  sleeves,  her  general  air  of  a 
little  housewife.  And  never  was  there  so  devoted  a 
nurse. 

Sometimes  she  would  read  to  me  from  one  of  the 
few  books  I  had  taken  everywhere  on  my  travels,  a 
page  or  two  from  my  beloved  Stevenson,  a  poem  from 
my  great-hearted  Henley,  a  luminous  passage  from 
my  Thoreau.  How  those  readings  brought  back  the 
time  when,  tired  of  flicking  the  tawny  pools,  I  would 
sit  on  the  edge  of  the  boisterous  little  burn  and  read 
till  the  grey  shadows  sifted  down!  I  was  so  happy 
then,  and  I  did  not  know  it.  Now  everything 
seemed  changed.  Life  had  lost  its  zest.  Its  savour 
was  no  longer  sweet.  Its  very  success  was  more  bit- 
ter than  failure.  Would  I  ever  get  back  that  old- 
time  rapture,  that  youthful  joy,  that  satisfaction  with 
all  the  world? 

It  was  sweet  prolonging  my  convalescence,  yet  the 
time  came  when  I  could  no  longer  let  her  wait  upon 
me.  What  was  going  to  happen  to  us?  I  thought 
of  that  at  all  times,  and  she  knew  I  thought  of  it. 
Sometimes  I  could  see  a  vivid  colour  in  her  cheeks, 
an  eager  brightness  in  her  eye.  Was  ever  a  stranger 
situation?  She  slept  in  the  little  kitchen,  and  be- 
tween us  there  was  but  that  curtain.  The  faintest 
draught  stirred  it.     There  I  lay  through  the  long, 


382        ,     THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

long  night  in  that  quiet  cabin.  I  heard  her  breathing. 
Sometimes  even  I  heard  her  murmur  in  her  sleep.  I 
knew  she  was  there,  within  a  few  yards  of  me.  I 
thought  of  her  always.  I  loved  her  beyond  all  else  on 
earth.  I  was  gaining  daily  in  health  and  strength, 
yet  not  for  the  wealth  of  the  world  would  I  have 
passed  that  little  curtain.  She  was  as  safe  there  as 
if  she  were  guarded  with  swords.     And  she  knew  it. 

Once  when  I  was  in  agony  I  called  to  her  in  the 
night,  and  she  came  to  me.  She  came  with  a 
mother's  tenderness,  with  exquisite  endearments,  with 
the  great  love  shining  in  her  eyes.  She  leaned  over 
me,  she  kissed  me.  As  she  bent  over  my  bed  I  put 
my  arm  round  her.  There  in  the  darkness  were  we, 
she  and  I,  her  kisses  warm  upon  my  lips,  her  hair 
brushing  my  brow,  and  a  great  love  devouring  us. 
Oh,  it  was  hard,  but  I  released  her,  put  her  from  me, 
told  her  to  go  away. 

"  I'll  play  the  game  fair,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  must 
be  very,  very  careful.  Our  position  was  full  of 
danger.  So  I  forced  myself  to  be  cold  to  her,  and 
she  looked  both  surprised  and  pained  at  the  change 
in  me.  Then  she  seemed  to  put  forth  special  ef- 
forts to  please  me.  She  changed  the  fashion  of  her 
hair,  she  wore  pretty  bows  of  ribbon.  She  talked 
brightly  and  lightly  in  a  febrile  way.  She  showed 
little  coquettish  tricks  of  manner  that  were  charming 
to  my  mind.  Ever  she  looked  at  me  with  wistful 
concern.  Her  heart  was  innocent,  and  she  could 
not  understand  my  sudden  coldness.  Yet  that  night 
had  given  me  a  lightning  glimpse  of  my  nature  that 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  383 

frightened  me.  The  girl  was  winsome  beyond  words, 
and  I  knew  I  had  but  to  say  It  and  she  would  come 
to  me.  Yet  I  checked  myself.  I  retreated  behind 
a  barrier  of  reserve.  "Play  the  game,"  I  said; 
"  play  the  game." 

So  as  I  grew  better  and  stronger  she  seemed  to 
lose  her  cheerfulness.  Always  she  had  that  anxious, 
wistful  look.  Once  came  a  sound  from  the 
kitchen  like  stifled  sobbing,  and  again  in  the  night  I 
heard  her  cry.  Then  the  time  came  when  I  was  well 
enough  to  get  up,  to  go  away. 

I  dressed,  looking  like  the  cadaverous  ghost  I  felt 
myself  to  be.  She  was  there  in  the  kitchen,  sitting 
quietly,  waiting. 

"  Berna,"  I  called. 

She  came,  with  a  smile  lighting  up  her  face. 

"  I'm  going." 

The  smile  vanished,  and  left  her  with  that  high 
proud  look,  yet  behind  it  was  a  lurking  fear. 

"You're  going?"  she  faltered. 

"  Yes,"  I  said  roughly,  "  I'm  going." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"Are  you  ready?"  I  went  on. 

"Ready?" 

"  Yes,  you're  going,  too." 

"Where?" 

I  took  her  suddenly  in  my  arms. 

"  Why,  you  dear  little  angel,  to  get  married, 
of  course.  Come  on,  Berna,  we'll  find  the  near- 
est parson.  We  won't  lose  any  more  precious 
time." 


384  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

Then  a  great  rush  of  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
But  still  she  hung  back.     She  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  Berna,  what's  the  matter?  Won't  you 
come : 

"  I  think  not." 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  what  is  wrong,  dear?  Don't 
you  love  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  love  you.     It's  because  I  love  you  I  won't 


come." 


"  Won't  you  marry  me?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  can't.  You  know  what  I  said  before. 
I  haven't  changed  any.  I'm  still  the  same — dishon- 
oured girl.     You  could  never  give  me  your  name." 

"  You're  as  pure  as  the  driven  snow,  little  one." 

"  No  one  thinks  so  but  you,  and  it's  that  that 
makes  all  the  difference.  Everybody  knows.  No,  I 
could  never  marry  you,  never  take  your  name,  never 
bind  you  to  me." 

"  Well,  what's  to  be  done?  " 

"  You  must  go  away,  or — stay." 

"Stay?" 

"  Yes.  You've  been  living  alone  with  me  for  a 
month.  I  picked  you  up  that  night  in  the  dance-hall. 
I  had  you  brought  here.  I  nursed  you.  Do  you 
think  people  don't  give  us  credit  for  the  worst?  We 
are  as  innocent  as  children,  yet  do  you  think  I  have 
a  shred  of  reputation  left?  Already  I  am  supposed 
to  be  your  mistress.  Everybody  knows;  nobody 
cares.  There  are  so  many  living  that  way  here.  If 
you  told  them  we  were  innocent  they  would  scoff  at 
us.     If  you  go  they  will  say  you  have  discarded  me." 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  385 

"Whatshallldo?" 

"  Just  stay.  Oh,  why  can't  we  go  on  as  we've 
been  doing?  It's  been  so  like  home.  Don't  leave 
me,  dear.  I  don't  want  to  bind  you.  I  just  want  to 
be  of  some  use  to  you,  to  help  you,  to  be  with  you  al- 
ways. Love  me  for  a  little,  anyway.  Then  when 
you're  tired  of  me  you  can  go,  but  don't  go  now." 

I  was  dazed,  but  she  went  on. 

"  What  does  the  ceremony  matter?  We  love  each 
other.  Isn't  that  the  real  marriage?  It's  more;  it's 
an  ideal.  We'll  both  be  free  to  go  if  we  wish.  There 
will  be  no  bonds  but  those  of  love.  Is  not  that  beau- 
tiful, two  people  cleaving  together  for  love's  sake, 
living  for  each  other,  sacrificing  for  each  other,  yet 
with  no  man-made  law  to  tell  them :  '  This  must  ye 
do  '?     Oh,  stay,  stay!  " 

Her  arms  were  round  my  neck.  The  grey  eyes 
were  full  of  pleading.  The  sweet  lips  had  the  old, 
pathetic  droop.      I  yielded  to  the  empery  of  love. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  we  will  go  on  awhile,  on  one 
condition — that  by-and-bye  you  marry  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  I  will;  I  promise.  If  you  don't  tire 
of  me;  if  you  are  sure  beyond  all  doubt  you  will  never 
regret  it,  then  I  will  marry  you  with  the  greatest  joy 
in  the  world." 

So  it  came  about  that  I  stayed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

In  this  infernal  irony  of  an  existence  why  do  the 
good  things  of  Hfe  always  come  when  we  no  longer 
have  the  same  appetite  to  enjoy  them  ?  The  year  fol- 
lowing, in  which  Berna  and  I  kept  house,  was  not 
altogether  a  happy  one.  Somehow  we  had  both  just 
missed  something.  We  had  suffered  too  much  to  re- 
cover our  poise  very  easily.  We  were  sick,  not  in 
body,  but  in  mind.  The  thought  of  her  terrible  ex- 
perience haunted  her.  She  was  as  sensitive  as  the 
petal  of  a  delicate  flower,  and  often  would  I  see  her 
lips  quiver  and  a  look  of  pain  come  into  her  eyes. 
Then  I  knew  of  what  she  was  thinking.  I  knew,  and 
I,  too,  suffered. 

I  tried  to  make  her  forget,  yet  I  could  not  suc- 
ceed; and  even  in  my  most  happy  moments  there  was 
always  a  shadow,  the  shadow  of  Locasto;  there  was 
always  a  fear,  the  fear  of  his  return.  Yes,  it  seemed 
at  times  as  if  we  were  two  unfortunates,  as  if  our 
happiness  had  come  too  late,  as  if  our  lives  were  ir- 
retrievably shipwrecked. 

Locasto!  where  was  he?  For  near  a  year  had  he 
been  gone,  somewhere  in  that  wild  country  at  the 
Back  of  Beyond.  Somewhere  amid  the  wilder  peaks 
and  valleys  of  the  Rockies  he  fought  his  desperate 
battle  with  the  Wild.  There  had  been  sinister  ru- 
mours of  two  lone  prospectors  who  had  perished  up 

386 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  387 

in  that  savage  country,  of  two  bodies  that  lay  rotting 
and  half  buried  by  a  landslide.  I  had  a  sudden,  wild 
hope  that  one  of  them  might  be  my  enemy;  for  I 
hated  him  and  I  would  have  joyed  at  his  death. 
When  I  loved  Berna  most  exquisitely,  when  I  gazed 
with  tender  joy  upon  her  sweetness,  when,  with  glad, 
thankful  eyes,  I  blessed  her  for  the  sympathy  and 
sunshine  of  her  presence,  then  between  us  would  come 
a  shadow,  dark,  menacing  and  mordant.  So  the 
joy-light  would  vanish  from  my  eyes  and  a  great  sad- 
ness fall  upon  me. 

What  would  I  do  if  he  returned?  I  wondered. 
Perhaps  if  he  left  us  alone  I  might  let  by-gones  be 
by-gones;  but  if  he  ever  came  near  her  again — well, 
I  oiled  the  chambers  of  my  Colt  and  heard  its  joyous 
click  as  it  revolved.  "  That's  for  him,"  I  said, 
"  that's  for  him,  if  by  look,  by  word,  or  by  act  he 
ever  molests  her  again."  And  I  meant  it,  too.  Suf- 
fering had  hardened  me,  made  me  dangerous.  I 
would  have  killed  him. 

Then,  as  the  months  went  past  and  the  suspicion 
of  his  fate  deepened  almost  to  a  certainty,  I  began  to 
breathe  more  freely.  I  noticed,  too,  a  world  of  dif- 
ference in  Berna.  She  grew  light-hearted.  She  sang 
and  laughed  a  good  deal.  The  sunshine  came  back 
to  her  eyes,  and  the  shadow  seldom  lingered  there. 
Sometimes  the  thought  that  we  were  not  legally  mar- 
ried troubled  me,  but  on  all  sides  were  men  living 
with  their  Klondike  wives,  either  openly  or  secretly, 
and  where  this  domestic  menage  was  conducted  in 
quietness  there  was  little  comment  on  it.     We  lived 


388  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

to  ourselves,  and  for  ourselves.  We  left  our  neigh- 
bours alone.  We  made  few  friends,  and  in  the  fer- 
ment of  social  life  we  were  almost  unnoticed. 

Of  course,  the  Prodigal  expostulated  with  me  in 
severe  terms.  I  did  not  attempt  to  argue  with  him. 
He  would  not  have  understood  my  point  of  view. 
There  are  heights  and  depths  in  life  to  which  he  with 
his  practical  mind  could  never  attain.  Yet  he  be- 
came very  fond  of  Berna,  and  often  visited  us. 

"  XVhy  don't  you  go  and  get  churched  decently,  if 
you  love  her?  "  he  demanded. 

"  So  I  will,"  I  answered  calmly;  "  give  me  a  little 
time.     Wait  till  we  get  more  settled." 

And,  indeed,  we  were  up  to  our  necks  in  business 
these  days.  Our  Gold  Hill  property  had  turned  out 
well.  We  had  a  gang  of  men  employed  there,  and 
I  made  frequent  trips  out  to  Bonanza.  We  had  given 
the  Halfbreed  a  small  interest,  and  installed  him  as 
manager.  The  Jam-wagon,  too,  we  had  employed 
as  a  sort  of  assistant  foreman.  Jim  was  busy  in- 
stalling his  hydraulic  plant  on  Ophir  Creek,  and  alto- 
gether we  had  enough  to  think  about.  I  had  set 
my  heart  on  making  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and 
as  things  were  looking  it  seemed  as  if  two  more  years 
would  bring  me  to  that  mark. 

"  Then,"  said  I  to  Berna,  "  we'll  go  and  travel 
all  over  the  world,  and  do  it  in  style." 

"Will  we,  dear?"  she  answered  tenderly.  "But 
I  don't  want  money  much  now,  and  I  don't  know  that 
I  care  so  much  about  travel  either.  What  I  would 
like  would  be  to  go  to  your  home,  and  settle  down 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  389 

and  live  quietly.  What  I  want  is  a  nice  flower 
garden,  and  a  pony  to  drive  into  town,  and  a  home  to 
fuss  about.  I  would  embroider,  and  read,  and  play 
a  little,  and  cook  things,  and — just  be  with  you." 

She  was  greatly  interested  in  my  description  of 
Glengyle.  She  never  tired  of  questioning  me  about 
it.  Particularly  was  she  interested  in  my  accounts 
of  Garry,  and  rather  scoffed  at  my  enthusiastic  de- 
scription of  him. 

"Oh,  that  wonderful  brother  of  yours!  One 
would  think  he  was  a  small  god,  to  hear  you  talk.  I 
declare  I'm  half  afraid  of  him.  Do  you  think  he 
would  like  me?  " 

"He  would  love  you,  little  girl;  any  one  would." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,"  she  chided  me.  And  then  she 
drew  my  head  down  and  kissed  me. 

I  think  we  had  the  prettiest  little  cabin  in  all  Daw- 
son. The  big  logs  were  peeled  smooth,  and  the  ends 
squarely  cut.  The  chinks  were  filled  in  with  mortar. 
The  whole  was  painted  a  deep  rich  crimson.  The 
roof  was  covered  with  sheet-iron,  and  it,  too,  was 
painted  crimson.  There  was  a  deep  porch  to 
it.  It  was  the  snuggest,  neatest  little  home  in  the 
world. 

Windows  hung  with  dainty  lace  curtains  peeped 
through  its  clustering  greenery  of  vines,  but  the 
glory  of  it  all  was  the  flower  garden.  There  was  a 
bewildering  variety  of  flowers,  but  mostly  I  remem- 
ber stocks  and  pinks,  Iceland  poppies,  marguerites, 
asters,  marigolds,  verbenas,  hollyhocks,  pansies  and 
petunias,  growing  in  glorious  profusion.      Even  the 


390  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

roughest  miner  would  stand  and  stare  at  them  as  he 
tramped  past  on  the  board  sidewalk. 

They  were  a  mosaic  of  glowing  colour,  yet  the 
crowning  triumph  was  the  poppies  and  sweet  peas. 
Set  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn  was  a  circle  that  was  a 
leaping  glow  of  poppies.  Of  every  shade  were  they, 
from  starry  pink  to  luminous  gold,  from  snowy  white 
to  passionate  crimson.  Like  vari-coloured  lamps  they 
swung,  and  wakened  you  to  wonder  and  joy  with  the 
exultant  challenge  of  their  beauty.  And  the  sweet 
peas!  All  up  the  south  side  of  the  cabin  they  grew, 
overtopping  the  eaves  in  their  riotous  perfection. 
They  rivalled  the  poppies  in  the  radiant  confusion  of 
their  colour,  and  they  were  so  lavish  of  blossom  we 
could  not  pick  them  fast  enough.  I  think  ours  was 
the  pioneer  garden  of  the  gold-born  city,  and 
awakened  many  to  the  growth-giving  magic  of  the 
long,  long  day. 

And  it  was  the  joy  and  pride  of  Berna's  heart.  I 
would  sit  on  the  porch  of  a  summer's  evening  when 
down  the  mighty  Yukon  a  sunset  of  vast  and  violent 
beauty  flamed  and  languished,  and  I  would  watch  her 
as  she  worked  among  her  flowers.  I  can  see  her 
flitting  figure  in  a  dress  of  dainty  white  as  she  hov- 
ered over  a  beautiful  blossom.  I  can  hear  her  call- 
ing me,  her  voice  like  the  music  of  a  flute,  calling  me 
to  come  and  see  some  triumph  of  her  skill.  I  have  a 
picture  of  her  coming  towards  me  with  her  arms  full 
of  flowers,  burying  her  face  lovingly  among  the  vel- 
vet petals,  and  raising  it  again,  the  sweetest  flower 
of  all.     How  radiantly  outshone  her  eyes,  and  her 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  391 

face,  delicate  as  a  cameo,  seemed  to  have  stolen  the 
fairest  tints  of  the  lily  and  the  rose. 

Starry  vines  screened  the  porch,  and  everywhere 
were  swinging  baskets  of  silver  birch,  brimming  over 
with  the  delicate  green  of  smilax  or  clouded  in  an 
amethystine  mist  of  lobelias.  I  can  still  see  the  little 
sitting-room  with  its  piano,  its  plenitude  of  cushions, 
its  book-rack,  its  Indian  corner,  its  tasteful  paper,  its 
pictures,  and  always  and  everywhere  flowers,  flowers. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  them. 
They  glorified  the  crudest  corner,  and  made  our  home 
like  a  nook  in  fairyland. 

I  remember  one  night  as  I  sat  reading  she  came 
to  me.  Never  did  I  see  her  look  so  happy.  She  was 
almost  childlike  in  her  joy.  She  sat  down  by  my 
chair  and  looked  up  at  me.  Then  she  put  her  arms 
around  me. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  happy,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"Are  you,  dearest?  "  I  caressed  the  soft  floss  of 
her  hair. 

"  Yes,  I  just  wish  we  could  live  like  this  forever;  " 
and  she  nestled  up  to  me  ever  so  fondly. 

Aye,  she  was  happy,  and  I  will  always  bless  the 
memory  of  those  days,  and  thank  God  I  was  the 
means  of  bringing  a  little  gladness  into  her  marred 
life.  She  was  happy,  and  yet  we  were  living  in  what 
society  would  call  sin.  Conventionally  we  were  not 
man  and  wife,  yet  never  were  man  and  wife  more  de- 
voted, more  self-respecting.  Never  were  man  and 
wife  endowed  with  purer  ideals,  with  a  more  exalted 
conception  of  the  sanctity  of  love.     Yet  there  were 


392  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

many  in  the  town  not  half  so  deHcate,  so  refined,  so 
spiritual,  who  would  have  passed  my  little  lady  like 
a  pariah.     But  what  cared  we? 

And  perhaps  it  was  the  very  greatness  of  my  love 
for  her  that  sometimes  made  me  fear;  so  that  often 
in  the  ecstasy  of  a  moment  I  would  catch  my  breath 
and  wonder  if  it  all  could  last.  And  when  the  pop- 
lars turned  to  gold,  and  up  the  valley  stole  a  shud- 
dering breath  of  desolation,  my  fear  grew  apace. 
The  sky  was  all  resplendent  with  the  winter  stars, 
and  keen  and  hard  their  facets  sparkled.  And  I 
knew  that  somewhere  underneath  those  stars  there 
slept  Locasto.  But  was  it  the  sleep  of  the  living  or 
of  the  dead?     Would  he  return? 


CHAPTER  IX 

Two  men  were  crawling  over  the  winter-locked  plain. 
In  the  aching  circle  of  its  immensity  they  were  like 
little  black  ants.  One,  the  leader,  was  of  great  bulk 
and  of  a  vast  strength;  while  the  other  was  small 
and  wiry,  of  the  breed  that  clings  like  a  louse  to  life 
while  better  men  perish. 

On  all  sides  of  the  frozen  lake  over  which  they  were 
travelling  were  hills  covered  with  harsh  pine,  that 
pricked  funereally  up  to  the  boulder-broken  snows. 
Above  that  was  a  stormy  and  fantastic  sea  of  moun- 
tains baring  many  a  fierce  peak-fang  to  the  hollow 
heavens.  The  sky  was  a  waxen  grey,  cold  as  a  corpse- 
light.  The  snow  was  an  immaculate  shroud,  un- 
marked by  track  of  bird  or  beast.  Death-sealed  the 
land  lay  in  its  silent  vastitude,  in  its  despairful  desola- 
tion. 

The  small  man  was  breaking  trail.  Down  almost 
to  his  knees  in  the  soft  snow,  he  sank  at  every  step; 
yet  ever  he  dragged  a  foot  painfully  upward,  and 
made  another  forward  plunge.  The  snowshoe 
thong,  jagged  with  ice,  chafed  him  cruelly.  The 
muscles  of  his  legs  ached  as  insistently  as  if  clamped 
in  a  vice.  He  lurched  fonvard  with  fatigue,  so  that 
he  seemed  to  be  ever  stumbling,  yet  recovering  him- 
self. 

"  Come  on  there,  you  darned  little  shrimp;  get  a 

393 


394  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

move  on  you,"  growled  the  big  man  from  within  the 
frost-fringed  hood  of  his  parka. 

The  little  man  started  as  if  galvanised  into  sudden 
life.  His  breath  steamed  and  almost  hissed  as  it 
struck  the  icy  air.  At  each  raw  intake  of  it  his 
chest  heaved.  He  beat  his  mittened  hands  on  his 
breast  to  keep  them  from  freezing.  Under  the  hood 
of  his  parka  great  icicles  had  formed,  hanging  to  the 
hairs  of  his  beard,  walrus-like,  and  his  eyes,  thickly 
wadded  with  frost,  glared  out  with  the  furtive  fear 
of  a  hunted  beast. 

"  Curse  him.,  curse  him,"  he  whimpered;  but  once 
more  he  lifted  those  leaden  snowshoes  and  staggered 
on. 

The  big  man  lashed  fiercely  at  the  dogs,  and  as 
they  screamed  at  his  blows  he  laughed  cruelly.  They 
were  straining  forward  in  the  harness,  their  bellies 
almost  level  with  the  ground,  their  muscles  standing 
out  like  whale-bone.  Great,  gaunt  brutes  they  were, 
with  ribs  like  barrel-staves,  and  hip-bones  sharp  as 
stakes.  Their  woolly  coats  were  white  with  frost, 
their  sly,  slit-eyed  faces  ice-sheathed,  their  feet  torn 
so  that  they  left  a  bloody  track  on  the  snow  at  every 
step, 

"  Mush  on  there,  you  curs,  or  I'll  cut  you  In  two," 
stormed  the  big  man,  and  once  again  the  heavy  whip 
fell  on  the  yelling  pack.  They  were  pulling  for  all 
they  were  worth,  their  heads  down,  their  shoulders 
squared.  Their  breath  came  pantingly,  their  tongues 
gleamed  redly,  their  white  teeth  shone.  They  were 
fighting,  fighting  for  life,  fighting  to  placate  a  cruel 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  395 

master  in  a  world  where  all  was  cruelty  and  op- 
pression. 

For  there  in  the  Winter  Wild  pity  was  not  even  a 
name.  It  was  the  struggle  for  life,  desperate  and 
never-ending.  The  Wild  abhorred  life,  abhorred 
most  of  all  these  atoms  of  heat  and  hurry  in  the  midst 
of  her  triumphant  stillness.  The  Wild  would  crush 
those  defiant  pigmies  that  disputed  the  majesty  of  her 
invincible  calm. 

A  dog  was  hanging  back  in  the  harness.  It 
whined;  then  as  the  husky  following  snapped  at  it 
savagely,  it  gave  a  lurch  and  fell.  The  big  man  shot 
forward  with  a  sudden  fury  in  his  eyes.  Swinging 
the  heavy-thonged  whip,  again  and  again  he  brought 
it  down  on  the  writhing  brute.  Then  he  twisted  the 
thong  around  his  hand  and  belaboured  its  hollow  ribs 
with  the  butt.  It  screamed  for  a  while,  but  soon  it 
ceased  to  scream;  it  only  moaned  a  little.  With 
glistening  fangs  and  ears  up-pricked  the  other  dogs 
looked  at  their  fallen  comrade.  They  longed  to  leap 
on  it,  to  rend  its  gaunt  limbs  apart,  to  tear  its  quiver- 
ing flesh;  but  there  was  the  big  man  with  his  murder- 
ous whip,  and  they  cowered  before  him. 

The  big  man  kicked  the  fallen  dog  repeatedly.  The 
little  man  paused  in  his  painful  progress  to  look  on 
apathetically. 

"You'll  stave  in  its  ribs,"  he  remarked  presently; 
"  and  then  we'll  never  make  timber  by  nightfall." 

The  big  man  had  failed  in  his  efforts  to  rouse  the 
dog.  There  in  that  lancinating  cold,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
rage,  despairfully  he  poised  over  it. 


396  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

"Who  told  you  to  put  in  your  lip?"  he  snarled. 
"Who's  running  this  show,  you  or  I?  I'll  stave  in 
its  ribs  if  I  choose,  and  I'll  hitch  you  to  the  sled 
and  make  you  pull  your  guts  out,  too." 

The  little  man  said  no  more.  Then,  the  dog  still 
refusing  to  rise,  the  big  man  leapt  over  the  harness 
and  came  down  on  the  animal  with  both  feet.  There 
was  a  scream  of  pitiful  agony,  and  the  snap  of  break- 
ing bones.  But  the  big  man  slipped  and  fell.  Down 
he  came,  and  like  a  flash  the  whole  pack  piled  onto 
him. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  confused  muddle  of 
dogs  and  master.  This  was  the  time  for  which  they 
had  waited,  these  savage  semi-wolves.  This  man 
had  beaten  them,  had  starved  them,  had  been  a  devil 
to  them,  and  now  he  was  down  and  at  their  mercy. 
Ferociously  they  sprang  on  him,  and  their  white 
fangs  snapped  like  traps  in  his  face.  They  fought  to 
get  at  his  throat.  They  tore  at  his  parka.  Oh,  if 
they  could  only  make  their  teeth  meet  in  his  warm 
flesh!  But  no;  they  were  all  tangled  up  in  the 
harness,  and  the  man  was  fighting  like  a  giant.  He 
had  the  leader  by  the  throat  and  was  using  her  as  a 
shield  against  the  others.  His  right  hand  swung  the 
whip  with  flail-like  blows.  Foiled  and  confused  the 
dogs  fell  to  fighting  among  themselves,  and  triumph- 
antly the  man  leapt  to  his  feet. 

He  was  like  a  fiend  now.  Fiercely  he  raged  among 
the  snarling  pack,  kicking,  clubbing,  cursing,  till  one 
ajid  all  he  had  them  beaten  into  cowering  subjection. 

He  was  still  panting  from  his  struggle.     His  face 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  397 

was  deathly  pale,  and  his  eyes  were  glittering.  He 
strode  up  to  the  little  man,  who  had  watched  the  per- 
formance stolidly. 

"  Why  didn't  you  help  me,  you  dirty  little  whelp  ?  " 
he  hissed.  "  You  wanted  to  see  them  chew  me  up; 
you  know  you  did.  You'd  like  to  have  them  rip  me 
to  ribbons.  You  wouldn't  move  a  finger  to  save 
me.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  I've  had  enough  of  you 
this  trip  to  last  me  a  lifetime.  You've  bucked  me 
right  along.  Now,  blast  your  dirty  little  soul,  I  hate 
you,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  way  I'm  going  to  make 
your  life  hell.     See!     Now  I'll  begin." 

The  little  man  was  afraid.  He  seemed  to  grow 
smaller,  while  over  him  towered  the  other,  dark, 
fierce  and  malignant.  The  little  man  was  desperate. 
Defensively  he  crouched,  yet  the  next  instant  he  was 
overthrown.  Then,  as  he  lay  sprawling  in  the  snow, 
the  big  man  fell  to  lashing  him  with  the  whip.  Time 
after  time  he  struck,  till  the  screams  of  his  victim  be- 
came one  long,  drawn-out  wail  of  agony.  Then  he 
desisted.  Jerking  the  other  on  his  feet  once  more, 
he  bade  him  go  on  breaking  trail. 

Again  they  struggled  on.  The  light  was  begin- 
ning to  fail,  and  there  was  no  thought  in  their  minds 
but  to  reach  that  dark  belt  of  timber  before  dark- 
ness came.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  crunch  of 
their  snowshoes,  the  panting  of  the  dogs,  the  rasping 
of  the  sleigh.  When  they  paused  the  silence  seemed 
to  fall  on  them  like  a  blanket.  There  was  something 
awful  in  the  quality  of  this  deathly  silence.  It  was 
as   if  something  material,   something  tangible,   hov- 


398  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

ered  over  them,  closed  in  on  them,  choked  them^ 
throttled  them.     It  was  almost  like  a  Presence. 

Weary  and  worn  were  men  and  dogs  as  they 
struggled  onwards  in  the  growing  gloom,  but  because 
of  the  feeling  in  his  heart  the  little  man  no  longer 
was  conscious  of  bodily  pain.  It  was  black  murder 
that  raged  there. 

With  straining  sinews  and  bones  that  cracked,  the 
dogs  bent  to  a  heavy  pull,  while  at  the  least  sign  of 
shirking  down  swished  the  relentless  whip.  And  the 
big  man,  as  if  proud  of  his  strength,  gazed  insolently 
round  on  the  Wild.  He  was  at  home  in  this  land, 
this  stark  wolf-land,  so  callous,  so  cruel.  Was  he  not 
cruel,  too?  Surely  this  land  cowered  before  him. 
Its  hardships  could  not  daunt  him,  nor  its  terrors  dis- 
may. As  he  urged  on  his  bloody-footed  dogs,  he  ex- 
ulted greatly.  Of  all  Men  of  the  High  North  was 
he  not  king? 

At  last  they  reached  the  forest  fringe,  and  after  a 
few  harsh  directions  he  had  the  little  man  making 
camp.  The  little  man  worked  with  a  strange  willing- 
ness. All  his  taciturnity  had  gone.  As  he  gathered 
the  firewood  and  filled  the  Yukon  stove,  he  hummed  a 
merry  air.  He  had  the  water  boiling  and  soon  there 
was  the  fragrance  of  tea  in  the  little  tent.  He  pro- 
duced sourdough  bread  (which  he  fried  in  bacon  fat) , 
and  some  dried  moose-meat. 

To  men  of  the  trail  this  was  a  treat.  They  ate 
ravenously,  but  they  did  not  speak.  Yet  the  little 
man  was  oddly  cheerful.  Time  and  again  the  big 
man  looked  at  him  suspiciously.     Outside  it  was  a 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  399 

steely  night,  with  an  icicle  of  a  moon.  The  cold 
leapt  on  one  savagely.  To  step  from  the  tent  was 
like  plunging  into  icy  water,  yet  within  those  canvas 
walls  the  men  were  warm  and  snug.  The  stove 
crackled  its  cheer.  A  grease-light  sputtered,  and  by 
its  rays  the  little  man  was  mending  his  Ice-stiffened 
moccasins.  He  hummed  an  Irish  air,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  tickled  with  some  thought  he  had. 

"  Stop  that  tune,"  growled  the  other.  "  If  you 
don't  know  anything  else,  cut  it  out.  I'm  sick  of 
it." 

The  little  man  shut  up  meekly.  Again  there  was 
silence,  broken  by  a  whining  and  a  scratching  outside. 
It  was  the  five  dogs  crying  for  their  supper,  crying 
for  the  frozen  fish  they  had  earned  so  well.  They 
wondered  why  it  was  not  forthcoming.  When  they 
received  it  they  would  lie  on  it,  to  warm  it  with  the 
heat  of  their  bodies,  and  then  gnaw  off  the  thawed 
portions.  They  were  very  wise,  these  dogs.  But  to- 
night there  was  no  fish,  and  they  whined  for  it. 

"Dog  feed  all  gone?" 

"  Yep,"  said  the  small  man. 

"Hell!      I'll  silence  these  brutes  anyway." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  laid  onto  them  so  that 
they  slunk  away  into  the  shadows.  But  they  did  not 
bury  themselves  in  the  snow  and  sleep.  They  con- 
tinued to  prowl  round  the  tent,  hunger-mad  and 
desperate. 

"  We've  only  got  enough  grub  left  for  ourselves 
now,"  said  the  big  man;  "and  none  too  much  at 
that.     I  guess  I'll  put  you  on  half-rations." 


400  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

He  laughed  as  If  it  was  the  hugest  joke.  Then 
rolling  himself  in  a  robe,  he  lay  down  and  slept. 

The  little  man  did  not  sleep.  He  was  still  turn- 
ing over  the  thought  that  had  come  to  him.  Out- 
side in  the  atrocious  cold  the  whining  malamutes  crept 
nearer  and  nearer.  Savage  were  they,  Indian  raised 
and  sired  by  a  wolf.  And  now,  in  the  agonies  of 
hunger,  they  cried  for  fish,  and  there  was  none  for 
them,  only  kicks  and  curses.  Oh,  It  was  a  world  of 
ghastly  cruelty!  They  howled  their  woes  to  the 
weary  moon. 

"  Short  rations,  indeed,"  mumbled  the  little  man. 
He  crawled  into  his  sleeping  bag,  but  he  did  not 
close  his  eyes.     He  was  watching. 

About  dawn  he  rose.  An  evil  dawn  It  was,  sallow, 
sinister  and  askew. 

The  little  man  selected  the  heavy-handled  whip  for 
the  job.  Carefully  he  felt  Its  butt,  then  he  struck. 
It  was  a  shrewd  blow  and  a  neatly  delivered,  for  the 
little  man  had  been  in  the  business  before.  It  fell  on 
the  big  man's  head,  and  he  crumpled  up.  Then  the 
little  man  took  some  rawhide  thongs  and  trussed  up 
his  victim.  There  lay  the  big  man,  bound  and  help- 
less, with  a  clotted  blood-hole  in  his  black  hair. 

Then  the  little  man  gathered  up  the  rest  of  the 
provisions.  He  looked  around  carefully,  as  if  fear- 
ful of  leaving  anything  behind.  He  made  a  pack  of 
the  food  and  lashed  It  on  his  back.  Now  he  was 
ready  to  start.  He  knew  that  within  fifty  miles, 
travelling  to  the  south,  he  would  strike  a  settlement. 
He  was  safe. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  401 

He  turned  to  where  lay  the  unconscious  body  of 
his  partner.  Again  and  again  he  kicked  it;  he  cursed 
it;  he  spat  on  it.  Then,  after  a  -Inal  look  of  gloating 
hate,  he  went  off  and  left  the  big  man  to  his  fate. 

At  last,  at  long  last,  the  Worm  had  turned. 


CHAPTER  X 

The  dogs !  The  dogs  were  closing  in.  Nearer  and 
nearer  they  drew,  headed  by  a  fierce  Mackenzie  River 
bitch.  They  wondered  why  their  master  did  not 
wake;  they  wondered  why  the  Httle  tent  was  so  still; 
why  no  plume  of  smoke  rose  from  the  slim  stove- 
pipe. All  was  oddly  quiet  and  lifeless.  No  curses 
greeted  them;  no  whip-lash  cut  into  them;  no  strong 
arm  jerked  them  over  the  harness.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
primordial  instinct  that  drew  them  on,  that  made  them 
strangely  bold.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  despair  of 
their  hunger,  the  ache  of  empty  bellies.  Closer  and 
closer  they  crept  to  the  silent  tent. 

Locasto  opened  his  eyes.  Within  a  foot  of  his 
face  were  the  fangs  of  a  malamute.  At  his  slight 
movement  it  drew  back  with  a  snarl,  and  retreated  to 
the  door.  Locasto  could  see  the  other  dogs  crouch- 
ing and  eyeing  him  fixedly.  What  could  be  the  mat- 
ter? What  had  gotten  into  the  brutes?  Where  was 
the  Worm?  Where  were  the  provisions?  Why 
was  the  tent  flap  open  and  the  stove  stone-cold?  Then 
with  a  dawning  comprehension  that  he  had  been 
deserted,  Locasto  uttered  a  curse  and  tried  to 
rise. 

At  first  he  thought  he  was  stiff  with  cold,  but  a 
downward  glance  showed  him  his  condition.  He  was 
helpless.     He  grew  sick  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach, 

402 


i' 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  403 

and  glared  at  the  dogs.  They  were  drawing  in  on 
him.  They  seemed  to  bulk  suddenly,  to  grow  huge 
and  menacing.  Their  gleaming  teeth  snapped  in  his 
face.  He  could  fancy  these  teeth  stripping  the  flesh 
from  his  body,  gnawing  at  his  bones  with  drooling 
jaws.  Violently  he  shuddered.  He  must  try  to  free 
himself,  so  that  at  least  he  could  fight. 

Grimly  the  Worm  had  done  his  work,  but  he  had 
hardly  reckoned  on  the  strength  of  this  man.  With  a 
vast  throe  of  fear  Locasto  tried  to  free  himself. 
Tenser,  tenser  grew  the  thongs;  they  strained,  they 
bit  into  his  flesh,  but  they  would  not  break.  Yet  as 
he  relaxed  it  seemed  to  him  they  were  less  tight. 
Then  he  rested  for  another  effort. 

Once  again  the  gaunt,  grey  bitch  was  crawl- 
ing up.  He  remembered  how  often  he  had 
starved  it,  clubbed  it  until  it  could  barely  stand. 
Now  it  was  going  to  get  even.  It  would  snap 
at  his  throat,  rip  out  his  windpipe,  bury  its 
fangs  in  his  bleeding  flesh.  He  cursed  it  in  the 
old  way.  With  a  spring  it  backed  out  again  and 
stood  with  the  others.  He  made  another  giant  ef- 
fort. Once  again  he  felt  the  thongs  strain  and  strain ; 
then,  when  he  ceased,  he  imagined  they  were  still 
looser. 

The  dogs  seemed  to  have  lost  all  fear.  They  stood 
in  a  circle  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  regarding  him 
intently.  They  smelled  the  blood  on  his  head,  and  a 
slaver  ran  from  their  jaws.  Again  he  cursed  them, 
but  this  time  they  did  not  move.  They  seemed  to 
realise  he  could  not  harm  them.     With  their  evilly- 


404  THE   TRAIL   OF    '98 

slanted  eyes  they  watched  his  struggles.  Strange, 
wise,  uncanny  brutes,  they  were  biding  their  time, 
waiting  to  rush  in  on  him,  to  rend  him. 

Again  he  tried  to  get  free.  Now  he  fancied  he 
could  move  his  arm  a  little.  He  must  hurry,  for 
every  instant  the  malamutes  were  growing  bolder. 
Another  strain  and  a  wrench.  Ha !  he  was  able  to 
squeeze  his  right  arm  from  under  the  rawhide. 

He  felt  the  foul  breath  of  the  dogs  on  his  face,  and 
quickly  he  struck  at  them.  They  jumped  back,  then, 
as  if  at  a  signal,  they  sprang  in  again.  There  was  no 
time  to  lose.  They  were  attacking  him  in  earnest. 
Quickly  he  wrenched  out  his  other  arm.  He  was  just 
in  time,  for  the  dogs  were  upon  him. 

He  struggled  to  his  knees  and  shielded  his  head 
with  his  arms.  Wildly  he  swung  at  the  nearest 
dog.  Full  on  the  face  he  struck  it,  and  it  shot  back 
as  if  hit  by  a  bullet.  But  the  others  were  on  him. 
They  had  him  down,  snarling  and  ripping,  a  mad 
ferment  of  fury.  Two  of  them  were  making  for  his 
face.  As  he  lay  on  his  back  he  gripped  each  by  the 
throat.  His  hands  were  torn  and  bleeding,  but  he 
had  them  fast.  In  his  grip  of  steel  they  struggled 
to  free  themselves  in  vain.  They  backed,  they 
writhed,  they  twisted  in  a  bow.  With  his  huge  hands 
he  was  choking  them,  choking  them  to  death,  using 
them  as  a  shield  against  the  other  three.  Then  slowly 
he  worked  himself  into  a  sitting  position.  He  hurled 
one  of  the  dogs  to  the  tent  door.  He  swung  bludgeon 
blows  at  the  others.  They  fled  yelping  and  howling. 
He  still  held  the  Mackenzie  River  bitch.     Getting 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  405 

his  knee  on  her  body,  he  bent  her  almost  into  a  circle, 
bent  her  till  her  back  broke  with  a  snap. 

Then  he  rose  and  freed  himself  from  the  remaining 
thongs.  He  was  torn  and  cut  and  bleeding,  but  he 
had  triumphed. 

"  Oh,  the  devil!  "  he  growled,  grinding  his  teeth. 
"  He  would  have  me  chewed  to  rags  by  mala- 
mutes." 

He  stared  around. 

"He's  taken  everything,  the  scum!  left  me  to 
stance.  Ha  !  one  thing  he's  forgotten — the  matches. 
At  least  I  can  keep  warm." 

He  picked  up  the  canister  of  matches  and  relit  the 
stove. 

"  I'll  kifl  him  for  this,"  he  muttered.  "  Night  and 
day  I'll  follow  him.  I'll  camp  on  his  trail  till  I 
find  him.  Then — I'll  torture  him;  I'll  strip  him  and 
leave  him  naked  in  the  snow." 

He  slipped  into  his  snowshoes,  gave  a  last  look 
around  to  see  that  no  food  had  been  left,  and  with  a 
final  growl  of  fury  he  started  in  pursuit. 

^^  *J^  5J^  ^j^  Jji  ?|C  rfK 

Ahead  of  him,  ploughing  their  way  through  the 
virgin  snow,  he  could  see  the  dragging  track  of  the 
long  snowshoes.  He  examined  it,  and  noted  that  it 
was  sharp  and  crisp  at  the  edges. 

"  He's  got  a  good  five  hours'  start  of  me!  Trav- 
elling fast,  too,  by  the  length  of  the  track." 

He  had  a  thought  of  capturing  the  dogs  and  hitch- 
ing them  up;  but,  thoroughly  terrified,  they  had  re- 
treated into  the  woods.     To  overtake  this  man,  to 


4o6  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

glut  his  lust  for  revenge,  he  must  depend  on  his  own 
strength  and  endurance. 

"  Now,  Jack  Locasto,"  he  told  himself  grimly, 
"  you've  got  a  fight  on  your  hands,  such  a  fight  as 
you  never  had  before.     Get  right  down  to  it." 

So,  with  head  bowed  and  shoulders  sloping  for- 
ward, he  darted  on  the  track  of  the  Worm. 

"He's  got  to  break  trail,  the  viper!  and  that's 
where  I  score.  I  can  make  twice  the  time.  Oh,  just 
wait,  you  little  devil!  just  wait!  " 

He  ground  his  teeth  vindictively,  and  put  an  inch 
more  onto  his  stride.  He  was  descending  a  long, 
open  valley  that  seemed  from  its  trackless  snows  to 
have  been  immemorially  life-shunned  and  accursed. 
Black,  witch-like  pines  sentinelled  its  flanks,  and  ac- 
centuated its  desolation.  And  over  all  there  was  the 
silence  of  the  Wild,  that  double-strong  solution  of 
silence  from  which  all  other  silences  are  distilled,  and 
spread  out.  Yet,  as  he  gazed  around  him  in  this  ever- 
lasting solitude,  there  was  no  fear  in  his  heart. 

"  I  can  fight  this  accursed  land  and  beat  it  out 
every  time,"  he  exulted.  "  It  can't  get  any  the  better 
of  me." 

It  was  cold,  so  cold  that  it  was  difficult  to  imagine 
it  could  ever  be  warm  again.  To  expose  flesh  was 
to  feel  instantly  the  sharp  sting  that  heralds  frost- 
bite. As  he  ran,  the  sharp  intake  of  icy  air  made  his 
lungs  seem  to  contract.  His  eyes  smarted  and  tingled. 
The  lashes  froze  closely.  Ice  formed  in  his  nostrils 
and  his  nose  began  to  bleed.  He  pulled  up  a  mo- 
ment. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  407 

"  Curse  this  Infernal  country!  " 

He  had  not  eaten  and  the  icy  air  begot  a  ravenous 
hunger.  He  dreamed  of  food,  but  chiefly  of  bacon, 
fat,  greasy  bacon.  How  glorious  it  would  be  just  to 
eat  of  it,  raw,  tallow  bacon !  He  had  nothing  to  eat. 
He  would  have  nothing  till  he  had  overtaken  the 
Worm.     On !     On ! 

He  came  to  where  the  Worm  had  made  a  camp. 
There  were  the  ashes  of  a  fire. 

"  Curse  him;  he's  got  some  matches  after  all,"  he 
said  with  bitter  chagrin.  Eagerly  he  searched  all 
around  in  the  snow  to  see  if  he  could  not  find  even  a 
crumb  of  food.  There  was  nothing.  He  pushed 
on.     Night  fell  and  he  was  forced  to  make  camp. 

Oh,  he  was  hungry!  The  night  was  vastly  re- 
splendent, a  spendthrift  night  scattering  everywhere 
its  largess  of  stars.  The  cold  had  a  crystalline  qual- 
ity and  the  trees  detonated  strangely  in  the  silence. 
He  built  a  huge  fire :  that  at  least  he  could  have,  and 
through  eighteen  hours  of  darkness  he  crouched  by 
It,  afraid  to  sleep  for  fear  of  freezing. 

"  If  I  only  had  a  tin  to  boil  water  in,"  he  mut- 
tered; "there's  lots  of  reindeer  moss,  and  I  could 
stew  some  of  my  mucklucks.  Ah  !  I'll  try  and  roast  a 
bit  of  them." 

He  cut  a  strip  from  the  Indian  boots  he  was  wear- 
ing, and  held  It  over  the  fire.  The  hair  singed  away 
and  the  corners  crisped  and  charred.  He  put  It  In 
his  mouth.  It  was  pleasantly  warm,  but  even  his 
strong  teeth  refused  to  meet  in  it.  However,  he  tore 
it  Into  smaller  pieces,  and  bolted  them. 


4o8  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

At  last  the  dawn  came,  that  evil,  sneaking,  corpse- 
like dawn,  and  Locasto  flung  himself  once  more  on 
the  trail.  He  was  not  feeling  so  fit  now.  Hunger 
and  loss  of  blood  had  weakened  him  so  that  his  stride 
insensibly  shortened,  and  his  step  had  lost  its  spring. 
However,  he  plodded  on  doggedly,  an  incarnation  of 
vengeance  and  hate.  Again  he  examined  the  snow- 
shoe  trail  ever  stretching  in  front,  and  noticed  how 
crisped  and  hard  was  its  edge.  He  was  not  making 
the  time  he  had  reckoned  on.  The  Worm  must  be  a 
long  way  ahead. 

Still  he  did  not  despair.  The  little  man  might  rest 
a  day,  or  oversleep,  or  strain  a  sinew,  then Lo- 
casto pictured  with  gloating  joy  the  terror  of  the 
Worm  as  he  awoke  to  find  himself  overtaken.  Oh, 
the  snake !  the  vermin  !     On  !     On  ! 

Beyond  a  doubt  he  was  growing  weaker.  Once  or 
twice  he  stumbled,  and  the  last  time  he  lay  a  few  mo- 
ments before  rising.  He  wanted  to  rest  badly.  The 
cold  was  keener  than  ever;  it  was  merciless;  it  was  ex- 
cruciating. He  no  longer  had  the  vitality  to  with- 
stand it.  It  stabbed  and  stung  him  whenever  he  ex- 
posed bare  flesh.  He  pulled  the  parka  hood  very 
close,  so  that  only  his  eyes  peered  out.  So  he  moved 
through  the  desolation  of  the  Arctic  Wild,  a  dark, 
muffled  figure,  a  demon  of  vengeance,  fierce  and 
menacing. 

He  stood  on  a  vast,  still  plateau.  The  sky  was 
like  a  great  grotto  of  ice.  The  land  lay  in  a  wan 
apathy  of  suffering,  dumb,  hopeless,  drear.  Icy  land 
and  icy  sky  met  in  a  trap,  a  trap  that  held  him  fast ; 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  409 

and  over  all,  vast,  titanic,  terrible,  the  Spirit  of  the 
Wild  seemed  to  brood.  It  laughed  at  him,  a  laugh 
of  derision,  of  mockery,  of  callous  gloating  triumph. 
Locasto  shuddered.  Then  night  came  and  he  built 
another  giant  fire. 

Again  he  bolted  down  some  roasted  muckluck. 
Overhead  the  stars  glittered  vindictively.  They  were 
green  and  blue  and  red,  and  they  had  spiny  rays  like 
starfish  on  which  they  danced.  This  night  he  had  to 
make  tremendous  efforts  to  keep  from  sleeping.  Sev- 
eral times  he  drowsed  forward,  and  almost  fell  into 
the  fire.  As  he  crouched  there  his  beard  was  singeing 
and  his  face  scorched,  but  his  back  seemed  as  if  it  was 
cased  in  ice.  Often  he  would  turn  and  warm  it  at  the 
fire,  but  not  for  long.  He  hated  to  face  the  terror 
of  the  silence  and  the  dark,  the  shadow  where  waited 
Death.  Better  the  crackling  cheer  of  the  spruce 
flame. 

At  dawn  the  sky  was  leaden  and  the  cold  less 
despotic.  Stretching  interminably  ahead  was  that 
lonely  snowshoc  trail.     Locasto  was  puzzled. 

"  Where  In  creation  is  the  little  devil  going  to,  any- 
way? "  he  said,  knitting  his  brows.  "  I  figured  he'd 
make  direct  for  Dawson,  but  he's  either  changed  his 
mind  or  got  a  wrong  steer.  By  Heavens,  that's  it — 
the  little  varmint's  lost  his  way." 

Locasto  had  an  Indian's  unerring  sense  of  loca- 
tion. 

"  I  guess  I  can't  afford  to  follow  him  any  more,"  he 
reflected.  "  I've  gone  too  far  already.  I'm  all 
petered  out.      I'll  have  to  let  him  go  in  the  meantime. 


4IO  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

It's  save  yourself,  Jack  Locasto,  while  there's  yet 
time.     Me  for  Dawson." 

He  struck  off  almost  at  right  angles  to  the  trail  he 
had  been  following,  over  a  low  range  of  hills.  It 
was  evil  going,  and  as  he  broke  through  the  snow- 
crust  mile  after  wearing  mile,  he  felt  himself  grow 
weaker  and  weaker.  "  Buck  up,  old  man,"  he  ad- 
jured himself  fiercely.      "  You've  got  to  fight,  fight." 

There  was  a  strange  stillness  In  the  air,  not  the 
natural  stillness  of  the  Wild,  but  an  unhealthy  one,  as 
of  a  suspension  of  something,  of  a  vacuum,  of  bated 
breath.  It  was  curiously  full  of  terror.  More  and 
more  he  felt  like  a  trapped  animal,  caught  In  a  vast 
cage.  The  sky  to  the  north  was  glooming  omi- 
nously. Every  second  the  horizon  grew  blacker, 
more  bodeful,  and  Locasto  stared  at  It,  with  a  sudden 
quake  at  his  heart. 

"  Blizzard,  by  thunder!  "  he  gasped. 

Was  that  a  breath  of  wind  that  stung  his  cheek? 
Was  It  a  snowflake  that  drifted  along  with  It? 
Denser  and  denser  grew  the  gloom,  and  now  there 
was  a  roaring  as  of  a  great  wind.  King  Blizzard 
was  come. 

"  I  guess  I'm  done  for,"  he  hissed  through  clenched 
teeth.     ''  But  I'll  fight  to  the  finish.     I'll  die  game." 


CHAPTER  XI 

It  was  on  him  now  with  a  swoop  and  a  roar.  He 
was  in  the  thick  of.  a  mud-grey  darkness,  a  bitter, 
blank  darkness  full  of  whirling  wind-eddies  and  vast 
flurries  of  snow.  He  could  not  see  more  than  a  few 
feet  before  him.  The  stinging  flakes  blinded  him; 
the  coal-black  night  engulfed  him.  In  that  seething 
turmoil  of  the  elements  he  was  as  helpless  as  a  child. 

"  I  guess  you're  on  your  last  trail.  Jack  Locasto," 
he  muttered  grimly. 

Nevertheless  he  lowered  his  head  and  butted 
desperately  into  the  heart  of  the  storm.  He  was 
very  faint  from  lack  of  food,  but  despair  had  given 
him  a  new  strength,  and  he  plunged  through  drift 
and  flurry  with  the  fury  of  a  goaded  bull. 

The  night  had  fallen  black  as  the  pit.  He  was  in 
an  immensity  of  darkness,  a  darkness  that  packed 
close  up  to  him,  and  hugged  him,  and  enfolded  him 
like  a  blanket.  And  in  the  black  void  winds  were 
raging  with  an  insane  fury,  whirling  aloft  mountains 
of  snow  and  hurling  them  along  plain  and  valley. 
The  forests  shrieked  in  fear;  the  creatures  of  the 
Wild  cowered  in  their  lairs,  but  the  solitary  man 
stumbled  on  and  on.  As  if  by  magic  barriers  of  snow 
piled  up  before  him,  and  almost  to  his  shoulders  he 
floundered  through  them.  The  wind  had  a  hatchet 
edge  that  pierced  his  clothes  and  hacked  him  viciously. 

411 


412  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

He  knew  his  only  plan  was  to  keep  moving,  to  stum- 
ble, stagger  on.     It  was  a  fight  for  life. 

He  had  forgotten  his  hunger.  Those  wild  visions 
of  gluttony  had  gone  from  him.  He  had  forgotten 
his  thirst  for  revenge,  forgotten  everything  but  his 
own  dire  peril. 

"  Keep  moving,  keep  moving  for  God's  sake,"  he 
urged  himself  hoarsely.  "  You'll  freeze  if  you  let 
up  a  moment.     Don't  let  up,  don't!  " 

But  oh,  how  hard  it  was  not  to  rest !  Every  muscle 
in  his  body  seemed  to  beg  and  pray  for  rest,  yet  the 
spirit  in  him  drove  them  to  work  anew.  He  was 
making  a  certain  mad  headway,  travelling,  always 
travelling.  He  doubted  not  he  was  doomed,  but  in- 
stinct made  him  fight  on  as  long  as  an  atom  of 
strength  remained. 

He  floundered  to  his  armpits  in  a  snowdrift.  He 
struggled  out  and  staggered  on  once  more.  In  the 
mad  buffoonery  of  that  cutting  wind  he  scarce  could 
stand  upright.  His  parka  was  frozen  stiff  as  a 
board.  He  could  feel  his  hands  grow  numb  in  his 
mits.  From  his  fingers  the  icy  cold  crept  up  and  up. 
Long  since  he  had  lost  all  sensation  in  his  feet.  From 
the  ankles  down  they  were  like  wooden  clogs.  He 
had  an  idea  they  were  frozen.  He  lifted  them,  and 
watched  them  sink  and  disappear  in  the  clinging  snow. 
He  beat  his  numb  hands  against  his  breast.  It  was 
of  no  use — he  could  not  get  back  the  feeling  in  them. 
A  craving  to  lie  down  in  the  snow  assailed  him. 

Life  was  so  sweet.  He  had  visions  of  cities,  of 
banquets,  of  theatres,  of  glittering  triumphs,  of  glori- 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  413 

ous  excitements,  of  women  he  had  loved,  conquered 
and  thrown  aside.  Never  again  would  he  see  that 
world.  He  would  die  here,  and  they  would  find  him 
rigid  and  brittle,  frozen  so  hard  they  would  have  to 
thaw  him  out  before  they  buried  him.  He  fancied  he 
saw  himself  frozen  in  a  grotesque  position.  There 
would  be  ice-crystals  in  the  very  centre  of  his  heart, 
that  heart  that  had  glowed  so  fiercely  with  the  lust  of 
life.  Yes,  life  was  sweet.  A  vast  self-pity  surged 
over  him.  Well,  he  had  done  his  best;  he  could 
struggle  no  more. 

But  struggle  he  did,  another  hour,  two  hours,  three 
hours.  Where  was  he  going?  Maybe  round  in  a 
circle.  He  was  like  an  automaton  now.  He  did  not 
think  any  more,  he  just  kept  moving.  His  feet 
clumped  up  and  down.  He  lifted  himself  out  of 
snowpits;  he  staggered  a  few  steps,  fell,  crawled  on 
all  fours  in  the  darkness,  then  in  a  lull  of  the  furious 
wind  rose  once  more  to  his  feet.  The  night  was 
abysmal;  closer  and  closer  it  hugged  him.  The  wind 
was  charging  him  from  all  points,  baffling  him  like  a 
merry  monster,  beating  him  down.  The  snow 
whirled  around  him  in  a  narrow  eddy,  and  he  tried  to 
grope  out  of  it  and  failed.     Oh,  he  was  tired,  tired! 

He  must  give  up.  It  was  too  bad.  He  was  so 
strong,  and  capable  of  so  much  for  good  or  bad. 
Alas!  it  had  been  all  for  bad.  Oh,  if  he  had  but 
another  chance  he  might  make  his  life  tell  a  dif- 
ferent tale!  Well,  he  wasn't  going  to  whine  or 
cower.     He  would  die  game. 

His  feet  were  frozen ;  his  arms  were  frozen.     Here 


414  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

he  would  lie  down  and — quit.  It  would  soon  be  over, 
and  it  was  a  pleasant  death,  they  said.  One  more 
look  he  gave  through  the  writhing  horror  of  the  dark- 
ness; one  more  look  before  he  closed  his  eyes  to  the 
horror  of  the  Greater  Darkness.   .   .   . 

Ha!  what  was  that?  He  fancied  he  saw  a  dim 
glow  just  ahead.  It  could  not  be.  It  was  one  of 
those  cheating  dreams  that  came  to  a  dying  man,  an 
illusion,  a  mockery.  He  closed  his  eyes.  Then  he 
opened  them  again — the  glow  was  still  there. 

Surely  it  must  be  real !  It  was  steady.  As  he  fell 
forward  it  seemed  to  grow  more  bright.  On  hands 
and  knees  he  crawled  to  it.  Brighter  and  brighter 
it  grew.  It  was  but  a  few  feet  away.  Oh,  God! 
could  it  be? 

Then  there  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  and  with  a  final 

plunge  Locasto   fell   forward,    fell   towards   a   lamp 

lighted  in  a  window,  fell  against  the  closed  door  of 

a  little  cabin. 

******** 

The  Worm  suffered  acutely  from  the  intense  cold. 
He  cursed  it  in  his  prolific  and  exhaustive  way.  He 
cursed  the  leaden  weight  of  his  snowshoes,  and  the 
thongs  that  chafed  his  feet.  He  cursed  the  pack  he 
carried  on  his  back,  which  momently  grew  heavier. 
He  cursed  the  country;  then,  after  a  general  debauch 
of  obscenity,  he  decided  it  was  time  to  feed. 

He  gathered  some  dry  twigs  and  built  a  fire  on  the 
snow.  He  hurried,  for  the  freezing  process  was  go- 
ing on  in  his  carcase,  and  he  was  afraid.  It  was  all 
ready.     Now  to  light  it — the  matches. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  415 

Where  in  hell  were  the  matches?  Surely  he  could 
not  have  left  them  at  the  camp.  With  feverish  haste 
he  overturned  his  pack.  No,  they  were  not  there. 
Could  he  have  dropped  them  on  the  trail?  He  had 
a  wild  idea  of  going  back.  Then  he  thought  of  Lo- 
casto  lying  in  the  tent.  He  could  never  face  that. 
But  he  must  have  a  fire.  He  was  freezing  to  death — 
right  now.  Already  his  fingers  were  tingling  and 
stiffening. 

Huh!  maybe  he  had  some  matches  in  his  pockets. 
No — yes,  he  had — one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  that  was 
all.  Five  slim  sulphur  matches,  part  of  a  block,  and 
jammed  in  a  corner  of  his  waistcoat  pocket.  Eagerly 
he  lit  one.  The  twigs  caught.  The  flame  leapt  up. 
Oh  it  was  good!     He  had  a  fire,  a  fire. 

He  made  tea,  and  ate  some  bread  and  meat.  Then 
he  felt  his  strength  and  courage  return.  He  had  four 
matches  left.  Four  matches  meant  four  fires.  That 
would  mean  four  more  days'  travel.  By  that  time  he 
would  have  reached  the  Dawson  country. 

That  night  he  made  a  huge  blaze,  chopping  down 
several  trees  and  setting  them  alight.  There,  lying 
in  his  sleeping-bag,  he  rested  well.  In  the  early  dawn 
he  was  afoot  once  more. 

Was  there  ever  such  an  atrocious  soul-freezing 
cold!  He  cursed  it  with  every  breath  he  drew.  At 
noon  he  felt  a  vast  temptation  to  make  another  fire, 
but  he  refrained.  Then  that  night  he  had  bad  luck, 
for  one  of  his  precious  matches  proved  little  more  than 
a  sliver  tipped  with  the  shadow  of  pink.  In  spite 
of   his   efforts    it   was    abortive,    and    he    was    com- 


4i6  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

pelled  to  use  another.  He  was  down  to  his  last 
match. 

Well,  he  must  travel  extra  hard.  So  next  day  in  a 
panic  of  fear  he  covered  a  vast  stretch  of  country.  He 
must  be  getting  near  to  one  of  the  gold  creeks.  As 
Le  surmounted  the  crest  of  every  ridge  he  expected  to 
see  the  blue  smoke  of  cabin  fires,  yet  always  was  there 
the  same  empty  desolation.  Then  night  came  and  he 
prepared  to  camp. 

Once  more  he  chopped  down  some  trees  and  piled 
them  in  a  heap.  He  was  very  hungry,  very  cold,  very 
tired.  What  a  glorious  blaze  he  would  soon  have! 
How  gallantly  the  flames  would  leap  and  soar !  He 
collected  some  dry  moss  and  twigs.  Never  had  he 
felt  the  cold  so  bitter.  It  was  growing  dusk.  Above 
him  the  sky  had  a  corpse-like  glimmer,  and  on  the 
snow  strange  bale-fires  glinted.  It  was  a  weird,  sar- 
donic light  that  waited,  keeping  tryst  with  darkness. 

He  shuddered  and  his  fingers  trembled.  Then 
ever  so  carefully  he  drew  forth  that  most  precious  of 
things,  the  last  match. 

He  must  hurry;  his  fingers  were  tingling,  freezing, 
stiffening  fast.  He  would  lie  down  on  the  snow,  and 
strike  it  quickly.   .   .   .   "O  God!" 

From  his  numb  fingers  the  slim  little  match  had 
dropped.  There  it  lay  on  the  snow.  Gingerly  he 
picked  it  up,  with  a  wild  hope  that  it  would  be  all 
right.  He  struck  it,  but  it  doubled  up.  Again  he 
struck  it :  the  head  came  off — he  was  lost. 

He  fell  forward  on  his  face.  His  hands  were 
numb,   dead.     He  lay  supported  by  his  elbows,  his 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  417 

eyes  gazing  blankly  at  the  unlit  fire.  Five  minutes 
passed;  he  did  not  rise.  He  seemed  dazed,  stupid, 
terror-stricken.  Five  more  minutes  passed.  He  did 
not  move.  He  seemed  to  stiffen,  to  grow  rigid,  and 
the  darkness  gathered  around  him. 

A  thought  came  to  his  mind  that  he  would 
straighten  out,  so  that  when  they  found  him  he  would 
be  in  good  shape  to  fit  in  a  coffin.  He  did  not  want 
them  to  break  his  legs  and  arms.  Yes,  he  would 
straighten  out.  He  tried — but  he  could  not,  so  he 
let  it  go  at  that. 

Over  him  the  Wild  seemed  to  laugh,  a  laugh  of 
scorn,  of  mockery,  of  exquisite  malice. 

And  there  in  fifteen  minutes  the  cold  slew  him. 
When  they  found  him  he  lay  resting  on  his  elbows  and 
gazing  with  blank  eyes  of  horror  at  his  unlit  fire. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  It's  a  beast  of  a  night,"  said  the  Halfbreed. 

He  and  I  were  paying  a  visit  to  Jim  in  the  cabin 
he  had  built  on  Ophir.  Jim  was  busy  making  ready 
for  his  hydrauHc  work  of  the  coming  Spring,  and  once 
in  a  while  we  took  a  run  up  to  see  him.  I  was  much 
worried  about  the  old  man.  He  was  no  longer  the 
cheerful,  optimistic  Jim  of  the  trail.  He  had  taken 
to  living  alone.  He  had  become  grim  and  taciturn. 
He  cared  only  for  his  work,  and,  while  he  read  his 
Bible  more  than  ever,  it  was  with  a  growing  fond- 
ness for  the  stern  old  prophets.  There  was  no  doubt 
the  North  was  affecting  him  strangely. 

"  Lord!  don't  it  blow?  Seems  as  if  the  wind  had 
a  spite  against  us,  wanted  to  put  us  out  of  business. 
It  minds  me  of  the  blizzards  we  have  in  the  North- 
west, only  it  seems  ten  times  worse." 

The  Halfbreed  went  on  to  tell  us  of  snowstorms 
he  had  known,  while  huddled  round  the  stove  we 
listened  to  the  monstrous  uproar  of  the  gale. 

"  Why  don't  you  chink  your  cabin  better,  Jim?  "  I 
asked;  "  the  snow's  sifting  through  in  spots." 

He  shoved  more  wood  into  the  stove,  till  It  glowed 
to  a  dull  red,  starred  with  little  sparks  that  came 
and  went. 

"  Snow  with  that  wind  would  sift  through  a  con- 
crete wall,"  he  said.      "  It's  part  an'  parcel  of  the 

418 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  419 

awful  land.  I  tell  you  there's  a  curse  on  this  coun- 
try. Long,  long  ago  godless  people  have  lived  In 
it,  lived  an'  sinned  an'  perished.  An'  for  Its  wicked- 
ness In  the  past  the  Lord  has  put  His  everlasting  curse 
on  It." 

Sharply  I  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  were  staring. 
His  face  was  drawn  into  a  knot  of  despair.  He 
sat  down  and  fell  into  a  mood  of  gloomy  silence. 

How  the  storm  was  howling !  The  Halfbreed 
smoked  his  cigarette  stolidly,  while  I  listened  and 
shuddered,  mightily  thankful  that  I  was  so  safe  and 
warm. 

"  Say,  I  wonder  if  there's  any  one  out  in  this  bed- 
lam of  a  night?  " 

"  If  there  is,  God  help  him,"  said  the  Halfbreed. 
"  He'll  last  about  as  long  as  a  snowball  In  hell." 

"  Yes,  fancy  wandering  round  out  there,  dazed 
and  desperate;  fancy  the  wind  knocking  you  down 
and  heaping  the  snow  on  you;  fancy  going  on  and 
on  in  the  darkness  till  you  freeze  stiff.     Ugh!  " 

Again  I  shuddered.  Then,  as  the  other  two  sat 
in  silence,  my  mind  strayed  to  other  things.  Chiefly 
I  thought  of  Berna,  all  alone  In  Dawson.  I  longed 
to  be  back  with  her  again.  I  thought  of  Locasto. 
Where  in  his  wild  wanderings  had  he  got  to?  I 
thought  of  Glengyle  and  Garry.  How  had  he  fared 
after  Mother  died?  Why  did  he  not  marry?  Once 
a  week  I  got  a  letter  from  him,  full  of  affection  and 
always  urging  me  to  come  home.  In  my  letters  I 
had  never  mentioned  Berna.  There  was  time  enough 
for  that. 


420  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

Lord !  a  terrific  gust  of  wind  shook  the  cabin.  It 
howled  and  screamed  Insanely  through  the  heaving 
night.  Then  there  came  a  lull,  a  strange,  deep  lull, 
deathlike  after  the  mighty  blast.  And  In  the  sudden 
quiet  It  seemed  to  me  I  heard  a  hollow  cry. 

"Hist!  What  was  that?"  whispered  the  Half- 
breed. 

Jim,  too,  was  listening  Intently. 

"  Seems  to  me  I  heard  a  moan." 

"  Sounded  like  the  cry  of  an  outcast  soul.  Maybe 
It's  the  spirit  of  some  poor  devil  that's  lost  away  out 
in  the  night.  I  hate  to  open  the  door  for  nothing. 
It  will  make  the  place  like  an  Ice-house." 

Once  more  we  listened  intently,  holding  our 
breath.     There  it  was  again,  a  low,  faint  moan. 

"  It's  some  one  outside,"  gasped  the  Halfbreed. 
Horror-stricken,  we  stared  at  each  other,  then  he 
rushed  to  the  door.  A  great  gust  of  wind  came  in 
on  us. 

"  Hurry  up,  you  fellows,"  he  cried;  "lend  a  hand. 
I  think  it's  a  man." 

Frantically  we  pulled  it  In,  an  unconscious  form 
that  struck  a  strange  chill  to  our  hearts.  Anxiously 
fwe  bent  over  it. 

"He's  not  dead,"  said  the  Halfbreed,  "  only  badly 
frozen,  hands  and  feet  and  face.  Don't  take  him 
near  the  fire." 

He  had  been  peering  Inside  the  parka  hood  and 
suddenly  he  turned  to  me. 

"  Well,  I'm  darned — it's  Locasto." 

Locasto !     I  shrank  back  and  stood  there  staring 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  421 

blankly.  Locasto !  all  the  old  hate  resurged  into 
my  heart.  Many  a  time  had  I  wished  him  dead; 
and  even  dying,  never  could  I  have  forgiven  him. 
As  I  would  have  shrank  from  a  reptile,  I  drew  back. 

"  No,  no,"  I  said  hoarsely,  "  I  won't  touch  him. 
Curse  him  !     Curse  him  !     He  can  die." 

"  Come  on  there,"  said  Jim  fiercely.  "  You 
wouldn't  let  a  man  die,  would  you  ?  There's  the 
brand  of  a  dog  on  you  if  you  do.  You'll  be  little 
better  than  a  murderer.  It  don't  matter  what  wrong 
he's  done  you,  it's  your  duty  as  a  man  to  help  him. 
He's  only  a  human  soul,  an'  he's  like  to  die  any- 
way.    Come  on.     Get  these  mits  off  his  hands." 

Mechanically  I  obeyed  him.  I  was  dazed.  It  was 
as  if  I  was  impelled  by  a  stronger  will  than  my  own. 
I  began  pulling  off  the  mits.  The  man's  hands  were 
white  as  putty.  I  slit  the  sleeves  and  saw  that  the 
awful  whiteness  went  clear  up  the  arm.  It  was 
horrible. 

Jim  and  the  Halfbreed  had  cut  open  his  muck- 
lucks  and  taken  off  his  socks,  and  there  stretched  out 
were  two  naked  limbs,  clay-white  almost  to  the  knees. 
Never  did  I  see  anything  so  ghastly.  Tearing  off  his 
clothing  we  laid  him  on  the  bed,  and  forced  some 
brandy  between  his  lips. 

At  last  heat  was  beginning  to  come  back  to  the 
frozen  frame.  He  moaned,  and  opened  his  eyes  in 
a  wild  gaze.  He  did  not  know  us.  He  was  still 
fighting  the  blizzard.     He  raised  himself  up. 

"  Keep  a-going,  keep  a-going,"  he  panted. 

"  Keep  that  bucket  a-going,"  said  the  Halfbreed. 


422  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  Thank  God,  we've  got  plenty  of  ice-water.  We've 
got  to  thaw  him  out." 

Then  for  this  man  began  a  night  of  agony,  such 
as  few  have  endured.  We  hfted  him  onto  a  chair 
and  put  one  of  those  clay-cold  feet  into  the  water. 
At  the  contact  he  screamed,  and  I  could  see  ice 
crystallise  on  the  edge  of  the  bucket.  I  had  for- 
gotten my  hatred  of  the  man.  I  only  thought  of 
those  frozen  hands  and  feet,  and  how  to  get  life  into 
them  once  more.     Our  struggle  began. 

"  The  blood's  beginning  to  circulate  back,"  said 
the  Halfbreed.  "  I  guess  that  water  feels  scalding  hot 
to  him  right  now.  We'll  have  to  hold  him  down 
presently.  Ugh — hold  on,  boys,  for  all  you're 
worth." 

He  had  not  warned  us  any  too  soon.  In  a  terri- 
ble spasm  of  agony  Locasto  threw  us  off  quickly.  We 
grasped  him  again.  Now  we  were  struggling  with 
him.  He  fought  like  a  demon.  He  was  cursing  us, 
praying  us  to  leave  him  alone,  raving,  shrieking. 
Grimly  we  held  on,  yet,  all  three,  it  was  as  much  as 
we  could  do  to  keep  him  down. 

"  One  would  think  we  were  murdering  him,"  said 
the  Halfbreed.  "  Keep  his  foot  in  the  bucket  there. 
1  wish  we'd  some  kind  of  dope  to  give  him.  There's 
boiling  lead  running  through  his  veins  right  now. 
Keep  him  down,  boys;  keep  him  down." 

It  was  hard,  but  keep  him  down  we  did;  though 
his  cries  of  anguish  deafened  us  through  that  awful 
night,  and  our  muscles  knotted  as  we  gripped.  Hour 
after  hour  we  held  him,  plunging  now  a  hand,  now 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  423 

a  foot  in  the  Ice-water,  and  holding  it  there.  How 
long  he  fought !  How  strong  he  was  !  But  the  time 
came  when  he  could  fight  no  more.  He  was  like  a 
child  in  our  hands. 

There,  at  last  it  was  done.  We  wrapped  the 
tender  flesh  in  pieces  of  blanket.  We  laid  him  moan- 
ing on  the  bed.  Then,  tired  out  with  our  long  strug- 
gle, we  threw  ourselves  down  and  slept  like  logs. 

Next  morning  he  was  still  unconscious.  He  suf- 
fered intense  pain,  so  that  Jim  or  the  Halfbreed  had 
to  be  ever  by  him.  I,  for  my  part,  refused  to  go 
near.  Indeed,  I  watched  with  a  growing  hatred  his 
slow  recovery.  I  was  sorry,  sorry.  I  wished  he  had 
died. 

At  last  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  feebly  he  asked 
where  he  was.  After  the  Halfbreed  had  told  him, 
he  lay  silent  awhile, 

"  I've  had  a  close  call,"  he  groaned.  Then  he 
went  on  triumphantly:  "  I  guess  the  Wild  hasn't 
got  the  bulge  on  me  yet.  I  can  give  it  another 
round." 

He  began  to  pick  up  rapidly,  and  there  In  that 
narrow  cabin  I  sat  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  and  be- 
held him  grow  strong  again.  I  suppose  my  face 
must  have  showed  my  bitter  hate,  for  often  I  saw 
him  watching  me  through  half-closed  eyes,  as  if  he 
realised  my  feelings.  Then  a  sneering  smile  would 
curve  his  lips,  a  smile  of  satanic  mockery.  Again 
and  again  I  thought  of  Berna.  Fear  and  loathing 
convulsed  me,  and  at  times  a  great  rage  burned  in 
me  so  that  I  was  like  to  kill  him. 


424  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  Seems  to  me  everything's  healing  up  but  that 
hand,"  said  the  Halfbreed.  "  I  guess  it's  too  far 
gone.  Gangrene's  setting  in.  Say,  Locasto,  looks 
like  you'll  have  to  lose  it." 

Locasto  had  been  favouring  me  with  a  particu- 
larly sardonic  look,  but  at  these  words  the  sneer  was 
wiped  out,  and  horror  crowded  Into  his  eyes. 

"  Lose  my  hand — don't  tell  me  that!  Kill  me  at 
once!  I  don't  want  to  be  maimed.  Lose  my  hand! 
Oh,  that's  terrible!  terrible!" 

He  gazed  at  the  discoloured  flesh.  Already  the 
stench  of  him  was  making  us  sick,  but  this  hand  with 
its  putrid  tissues  was  disgusting  to  a  degree. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Halfbreed,  "  there's  the  line  of 
the  gangrene,  and  it's  spreading.  Soon  mortifica- 
tion will  extend  all  up  your  arm,  then  you'll  die  of 
blood  poison.  Locasto,  better  let  me  take  off  that 
hand.  I've  done  jobs  like  that  before.  I'm  a  handy 
man,  I  am.     Come,  let  me  take  it  off." 

"  Heavens!  you're  a  cold-blooded  butcher.  You're 
going  to  kill  me,  between  you  all.  You're  In  a  plot 
leagued  against  me,  and  that  long-faced  fool  over 
there's  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Damn  you,  then,  go  on 
and  do  what  you  want." 

"  You're  not  very  grateful,"  said  the  Halfbreed. 
"  All  right,  lie  there  and  rot." 

At  his  words  Locasto  changed  his  tune.  He  be- 
came alarmed  to  the  point  of  terror.  He  knew  the 
hand  was  doomed.  He  lay  staring  at  It,  staring, 
staring.  Then  he  sighed,  and  thrust  its  loathsome- 
ness into  our  faces. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  425 

"  Come  on,"  he  growled.  "  Do  something  for 
me,  you  devils,  or  I'll  do  it  myself." 

^^  ^t  ^^  ^^  ^<  ^^ 

^^  ^^  ^^  ^f*  ^*  ^K 

The  hour  of  the  operation  was  at  hand.  The 
Halfbreed  got  his  jack-knife  ready.  He  had  filed 
the  edge  till  it  was  like  a  rough  saw.  He  cut  the 
skin  of  the  wrist  just  above  the  gangrene  line,  and 
raised  it  up  an  inch  or  so.  It  was  here  Locasto 
showed  wonderful  nerve.  He  took  a  large  bite  of 
tobacco  and  chewed  steadily,  while  his  keen  black 
eyes  watched  every  move  of  the  knife. 

"  Hurry  up  and  get  the  cursed  thing  off,"  he 
snarled. 

The  Halfbreed  nicked  the  flesh  down  to  the  bone, 
then  with  the  ragged  jack-knife  he  began  to  saw.  I 
could  not  bear  to  look.  It  made  me  deathly  sick. 
I  heard  the  grit,  grit  of  the  jagged  blade.  I  will  re- 
member the  sound  to  my  dying  day.  How  long  it 
seemed  to  take !  No  man  could  stand  such  torture. 
A  groan  burst  from  Locasto's  lips.  He  fell  back  on 
the  bed.  His  jaws  no  longer  worked,  and  a  thin 
stream  of  brown  saliva  trickled  down  his  chin.  He 
had  fainted. 

Quickly  the  Halfbreed  finished  his  work.  The 
hand  dropped  on  the  floor.  He  pulled  down  the  flaps 
of  skin  and  sewed  them  together. 

'*  How's  that  for  home-made  surgery  ?  "  he  chuckled. 
He  was  vastly  proud  of  his  achievement.  He  took 
the  severed  hand 'upon  a  shovel  and,  going  to  the 
door,  he  threw  it  far  out  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"Why  don't  you  go  outside?"  I  asked  of  the 
Jam-wagon. 

I  had  rescued  him  from  one  of  his  periodical 
plunges  into  the  cesspool  of  debauch,  and  he  was 
peaked,  pallid,  penitent.  Listlessly  he  stared  at  me 
a  long  moment,  the  dull,  hollow-eyed  stare  of  the 
recently  regenerate. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  think  I  stay  for  the 
same  reason  many  another  man  stays — pride.  I  feel 
that  the  Yukon  owes  me  one  of  two  things,  a  stake 
or  a  grave — and  she's  going  to  pay." 

"  Seems  to  me,  the  way  you're  shaping  you're  more 
liable  to  get  the  latter." 

"  Yes— well,  that'll  be  all  right." 

"  Look  here,"  I  remonstrated,  "  don't  be  a  rot- 
ter. You're  a  man,  a  splendid  one.  You  might  do 
anything,  be  anything.  For  Heaven's  sake  stop  slip- 
ping cogs,  and  get  into  the  game." 

His  thin,  handsome  face  hardened  bitterly. 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  not  fit  to 
play  the  game;  sometimes  I  wonder  if  it's  all  worth 
while ;  sometimes  I'm  half  inclined  to  end  it." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  nonsense." 

"I'm  not;  I  mean  it,  every  word.  I  don't  often 
speak  of  myself.  It  doesn't  matter  who  I  am,  or 
what  I've  been.    I've  gone  through  a  lot — more  than 

426 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  427 

most  men.  For  years  I've  been  a  sort  of  a  human 
derelict,  drifting  from  port  to  port  of  the  seven  seas. 
I've  sprawled  in  their  mire;  I've  eaten  of  their  filth; 
I've  wallowed  in  their  moist,  barbaric  slime.  Time 
and  time  again  I've  gone  to  the  mat,  but  somehow 
i  would  never  take  the  count.  Something's  always 
saved  me  at  the  last." 

"  Your  guardian  angel." 

"  Maybe.  Somehow  I  wouldn't  be  utterly  downed. 
I'm  a  bit  of  a  fighter,  and  every  day's  been  a  battle 
with  me.  Oh,  you  don't  know,  you  can't  believe  how 
I  suffer!  Often  I  pray,  and  my  prayer  always  is: 
'  O  dear  God,  don't  allow  me  to  think.  Lash  me 
with  Thy  wrath;  heap  burdens  on  me,  but  don't  let 
me  think.'  They  say  there's  a  hell  hereafter.  They 
lie:  it's  here,  now." 

I  was  astonished  at  his  vehemence.  His  face  was 
wrenched  with  pain,  and  his  eyes  full  of  remorseful 
misery. 

"What  about  your  friends?  " 

"  Oh,  them — I  died  long  ago,  died  in  the  early 
'8o's.  In  a  little  French  graveyard  there's  a  tomb- 
stone that  bears  my  name,  my  real  name,  the  name 
of  the  '  me  '  that  was.  Heart,  soul  and  body,  I  died. 
My  sisters  mourned  me,  my  friends  muttered,  '  Poor 
devil.'  A  few  women  cried,  and  a  girl — w^ell,  I 
mustn't  speak  of  that.  It's  all  over  long  ago;  but 
I  must  eternally  do  something,  fight,  drink,  work  like 
the  devil — anything  but  think.     I  mustn't  think." 

"  What  about  your  guardian  angel?  " 

"  Yes,   sometimes  I   think  he's  going  to  give  me 


428  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

another  chance.  This  Is  no  life  for  a  man  like  me, 
slaving  in  the  drift,  burning  myself  up  in  the  dissi- 
pation of  the  town.  A  great,  glad  fight  with  a  good 
sweet  woman  to  fight  for — that  would  save  me.  Oh, 
to  get  away  from  it  all,  get  a  clean  start!  " 

"  Well,  I  believe  in  you.  I'm  sure  you'll  be  all 
right.     Let  me  lend  you  the  money." 

"Thank  you,  a  thousand  thanks;  but  I  cannot 
take  it.  There  it  is  again — my  pride.  Maybe  I'm 
all  wrong.  Maybe  I'm  a  lost  soul,  and  my  goal's 
the  potter's  field.  No;  thanks!  In  a  day  or  two 
I'll  be  fighting-fit  again.  I  wouldn't  have  bored  you 
with  this  talk,  but  I'm  weak,  and  my  nerve's  gone." 

"  How  much  money  have  you  got?  "  I  asked. 

He  pulled  a  poor  piece  of  silver  from  his  pocket. 

"  Enough  to  do  me  till  I  join  the  pick-and-shovel 
gang." 

"What  are  those  tickets  in  your  hand?" 

He  laughed  carelessly. 

"  Chances  in  the  ice  pools.  Funny  thing,  I  don't 
remember  buying  them.     Must  have  been  drunk." 

"  Yes,  and  you  seem  to  have  had  a  '  hunch.' 
You've  got  the  same  time  on  all  three :  seven  seconds, 
seven  minutes  past  one,  on  the  ninth — that's  to-day. 
It's  noon  now.  That  old  ice  will  have  to  hurry  up 
if  you're  going  to  win.  Fancy,  if  you  did !  You'd 
clean  up  over  three  thousand  dollars.  There  would 
be  your  new  start." 

"  Yes,  fancy,"  he  echoed  mockingly.  "  Over  five 
thousand  betting,  and  the  guesses  as  close  as  peas 
in  a  pod." 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  429 

"Well,  the  ice  may  go  out  any  moment.  It's 
awful  rotten." 

With  a  curious  fascination,  we  gazed  down  at  the 
mighty  river.  Around  us  was  a  glow  of  spring  sun- 
shine, above  us  the  renaissance  of  blue  skies.  Rags 
of  snow  still  glimmered  on  the  hills,  and  the  brown 
earth,  as  if  ashamed  of  its  nakedness,  was  bursting 
greenly  forth.  On  the  slope  overlooking  the  Klon- 
dike, girls  in  white  dresses  were  gathering  the 
wild  crocus.  All  was  warmth,  colour,  awakening 
life. 

Surely  the  river  ice  could  not  hold  much  longer. 
It  was  patchy,  netted  with  cracks,  heaved  up  in 
ridges,  mottled  with  slushy  pools,  corroded  to  the 
bottom.  Decidedly  it  was  rotten,  rotten.  Still  it 
held  stubbornly.  The  Klondike  hammered  it  with 
mighty  bergs,  black  and  heavy  as  a  house.  Down 
the  swift  current  they  sped,  crashing,  grinding,  roar- 
ing, to  batter  into  the  unbroken  armour  of  the  Yukon. 
And  along  its  banks,  watching  even  as  we  watched, 
were  thousands  of  others.  On  every  lip  was  the 
question — "The  ice — when  will  it  go  out?"  For 
to  these  exiles  of  the  North,  after  eight  months  of 
isolation,  the  sight  of  open  water  would  be^Jike 
Heaven.  It  would  mean  boats,  freedom,  friendly 
faces,  and  a  step  nearer  to  that  "  outside  "  of  their 
dreams. 

Towards  the  centre  of  the  vast  mass  of  ice  that 
belted  in  the  city  was  a  post,  and  on  this  lonely  post 
thousands  of  eyes  were  constantly  turning.  For  an 
electric  wire  connected  it  with  the  town,  so  that  when 


430  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

it  moved  down  a  certain  distance  a  clock  would  reg- 
ister the  exact  moment.  Thus,  thousands  gazing  at 
that  solitary  post  thought  of  the  bets  they  had  made, 
and  wondered  if  this  year  they  would  be  the  lucky 
ones.  It  is  a  unique  incident  in  Dawson  life,  this 
gambling  on  the  ice.  There  are  dozens  of  pools, 
large  and  small,  and  both  men  and  women  take  part 
in  the  betting,  with  an  eagerness  and  excitement  that 
is  almost  childish. 

I  sat  on  a  bench  on  the  N.  C.  trail  overlooking 
the  town,  and  watched  the  Jam-wagon  crawl  down 
the  hill  to  his  cabin.  Poor  fellow !  How  drawn  and 
white  was  his  face,  and  his  long,  clean  frame — how 
gaunt  and  weary !  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  What 
w.ould  become  of  him?  He  was  a  splendid  "  misfit." 
If  he  only  had  another  chance !  Somehow  I  believed 
in  him,  and  fervently  I  hoped  he  would  have  that 
good  clean  start  again. 

Up  in  the  cold  remoteness  of  the  North  are  many 
of  his  kind — the  black  sheep,  the  undesirables,  the 
discards  of  the  pack.  Their  lips  are  sealed;  their 
eyes  are  cold  as  glaciers,  and  often  they  drink  deep. 
Oh,  they  are  a  mighty  company,  the  men  you  don't 
enquire  about;  but  it  is  the  code  of  the  North  to  take 
them  as  you  find  them,  so  they  go  their  way  un- 
regarded. 

How  clear  the  air  was !  It  was  like  looking 
through  a  crystal  lens — every  leaf  seemed  to  stand 
out  vividly.  Sounds  came  up  to  me  with  marvellous 
distinctness.  Summer  was  coming,  and  with  it  the 
assurance  of  a  new  peace.     Down  there  I  could  see 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  431 

our  home,  and  on  its  veranda,  hammock-swung,  the 
white  figure  of  Berna.  How  precious  she  was  to  me ! 
How  anxiously  I  watched  over  her!  A  look,  a  word 
meant  more  to  me  than  volumes.  If  she  was  happy 
I  was  full  of  joy;  if  she  was  sad  the  sunshine  paled, 
the  flowers  drooped,  there  was  no  gladness  in  the 
day.  Often  as  she  slept  I  watched  her,  marvelling 
at^  the  fine  perfection  of  her  face.  Always  was  she 
an  object  of  wonder  to  me — something  to  be  adored, 
to  demand  all  that  was  fine  and  high  in  me. 

Yet  sometimes  it  was  the  very  intensity  of  my  love 
that  made  me  fear;  so  that  in  the  ecstasy  of  a  mo- 
ment I  would  catch  my  breath  and  wonder  if  it  all 
could  last.  And  always  the  memory  of  Locasto  was 
a  sinister  shadow.  He  had  gone  "  outside,"  terribly 
broken  in  health,  gone  cursing  me  hoarsely  and  vow- 
ing he  would  return.    Would  he? 

Who  that  knows  the  North  can  ever  deny  Its  lure  ? 
Wherever  you  be,  it  will  call  and  call  to  you.  In 
the  sluggish  South  you  will  hear  it,  will  long  for  the 
keen  tingle  of  its  silver  days,  the  vaster  glory  of  its 
star-strewn  nights.  In  the  city's  heart  it  will  come 
to  you  till  you  hunger  for  its  big,  clean  spaces,  its 
racing  rivers,  its  purple  tundras.  In  the  homes  of 
the  rich  its  voice  will  seek  you  out,  and  you  will 
ache  for  your  lonely  camp-fire,  a  sunset  splendouring 
to  golden  death,  the  night  where  the  silence  clutches 
and  the  heavens  vomit  forth  white  fire.  Yes,  you 
will  hear  It,  and  hear  it,  till  a  madness  comes  over 
you,  till  you  leave  the  crawling  men  of  the  sticky 
pavements  to  seek  it  out  once  more,  the  sapphire  of 


432  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

its  lustrous  lakes,  the  white  yearning  of  its  peaks 
to  the  myriad  stars.  Then,  as  a  child  comes  home, 
will  you  come  home.  And  I  knew  that  some  day  to 
the  land  wherein  he  had  reigned  a  conqueror,  Lo- 
casto,  too,  would  return. 

As  I  looked  down  on  the  grey  town,  the  wonder 
of  its  growth  came  over  me.  How  changed  from  the 
muddle  of  tents  and  cabins,  the  boat-lined  river,  the 
swarming  hordes  of  the  Argonauts !  Where  was  the 
niggerhead  swamp,  the  mud,  the  unrest,  the  mad 
fever  of  '98?  I  looked  for  these  things  and  saw 
in  their  stead  fine  residences,  trim  gardens,  well-kept 
streets.  I  almost  rubbed  my  eyes  as  I  realised  the 
magic  of  the  transformation. 

And  great  as  was  the  city's  outward  change,  its 
change  of  spirit  was  still  greater.  The  day  of  dance- 
hall  domination  was  over.  Vice  walked  very  cir- 
cumspectly. No  longer  was  it  possible  on  the  street 
to  speak  to  a  lady  of  easy  virtue  without  causing 
comment. 

The  demireps  of  the  deadline  had  been  banished 
over  the  Klondike,  where,  in  a  colony  reached  by  a 
crazy  rope  bridge,  their  red  lights  gleamed  like 
semaphores  of  sin.  The  dance-halls  were  still  run- 
ning, but  the  picturesque  impunity  of  the  old  muck- 
luck  days  was  gone  forever.  You  looked  in  vain, 
for  the  crude  scenes  where  the  wilder  passions  were 
unleashed,  and  human  nature  revealed  itself  in 
primal  nakedness.  Heroism,  brutality,  splendid 
achievement,  unbridled  license,  the  North  seems  to 
bring  out  all  that  is  best  and  worst  in  a  man.     It 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  433 

breeds  an  exuberant  vitality,  a  madness  for  action, 
whether  it  be  for  good  or  evil. 

In  the  town,  too,  life  was  becoming  a  thing  of 
more  sober  hues.  Sick  of  slipshod  morality,  men 
were  sending  for  their  wives  and  children.  The  old 
ideals  of  home  and  love  and  social  purity  were  tri- 
umphing. With  the  advent  of  the  good  woman,  the 
dance-hall  girl  was  doomed.  The  city  was  finding  it- 
self. Society  divided  into  sets.  The  more  preten- 
tious were  called  Ping-pongs,  while  a  majority  re- 
joiced in  the  name  of  Rough-necks.  The  post-office 
abuses  were  remedied,  the  grafters  ousted  from  the 
government  offices.  Rapidly  the  gold-camp  was  be- 
coming modernised. 

Yes,  its  spectacular  days  were  over.  No  more 
would  the  "live  one"  disport  himself  in  his  wild 
and  woolly  glory.  The  delirium  of  '98  was  fast 
becoming  a  memory.  The  leading  actors  in  that 
fateful  drama — where  were  they?  Dead:  some  by 
their  own  hands;  down  and  out  many,  drivelling  sot- 
tishly  of  by-gone  days;  poor  prospectors  a  few, 
dreaming  of  a  new  gold  strike. 

And,  as  I  think  of  it,  it  comes  over  me  that  the 
thing  is  vastly  tragic.  Where  are  they  now,  these 
Klondike  Kings,  these  givers  of  champagne  baths, 
these  plungers  of  the  gold-camp?  How  many  of 
those  that  stood  out  in  the  limelight  of  '98  can  tell 
the  tale  to-day?  Ladue  is  dead,  leaving  little  behind. 
Big  Alec  MacDonald,  after  lavishing  a  dozen  for- 
tunes on  his  friends,  dies  at  last,  almost  friendless  and 
alone.     Nigger  Jim  and  Stillwater  Willie — in  what 


434  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

back  slough  of  vicissitude  do  they  languish  to-day? 
Dick  Low  lies  In  a  drunkard's  grave.  Skookum  Jim 
would  fain  qualify  for  one.  Dawson  Charlie,  reeling 
home  from  a  debauch,  drowns  In  the  river.  In  im- 
pecunious despair,  Harry  Waugh  hangs  himself. 
Charlie  Anderson,  after  squandering  a  fortune  on  a 
thankless  wife,  works  for  a  labourer's  hire. 

So  I  might  go  on  and  on.  Their  stories  would 
fill  volumes.  And  as  I  sat  on  the  quiet  hillside,  lis- 
tening to  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  bees,  the  Inner 
meaning  of  It  all  came  home  to  me.  Once  again  the 
great  lone  land  was  sifting  out  and  choosing  its  own. 
Far-reaching  was  its  vengeance,  and  It  worked  In 
divers  ways.  It  fell  on  them,  even  as  It  had  fallen 
on  their  brethren  of  the  trail.  In  the  guise  of  for- 
tune it  dealt  their  ruin.  From  the  austere  silence 
of  Its  snows  It  was  mocking  them,  beguiling  them  to 
their  doom.  Again  It  was  the  Land  of  the  Strong. 
Before  all  It  demanded  strength,  moral  and  physical 
strength.  I  was  minded  of  the  words  of  old  Jim, 
"Where  one  wins  ninety  and  nine  will  fail";  and 
time  had  proved  him  true.  The  great,  grim  land  was 
weeding  out  the  unfit,  was  rewarding  those  who  could 
understand  it,  the  faithful  brotherhood  of  the  high 
North. 

.  Full  of  such  thoughts  as  these,  I  raised  my  eyes 
and  looked  down  the  river  towards  the  Moosehide 
Bluffs.  Hullo !  There,  just  below  the  town,  was  a 
great  sheet  of  water,  and  even  as  I  watched  I  saw  it 
spread  and  spread.  People  were  shouting,  running 
from  their  houses,  speeding  to  the  beach.    I  was  con- 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  435 

scious  of  a  thrill  of  excitement.  Ever  widening  was 
the  water,  and  now  it  stretched  from  bank  to  bank. 
It  crept  forward  to  the  solitary  post.  Now  it  was 
almost  there.  Suddenly  the  post  started  to  move. 
The  vast  ice-field  was  sliding  forward.  Slowly,  se- 
renely it  went,  on,  on. 

Then,  all  at  once,  the  steam-whistles  shrilled  out, 
the  bells  pealed,  and  from  the  black  mob  of  people 
that  lined  the  banks  there  went  up  an  exultant  cheer. 
"  The  ice  is  going  out — the  ice  is  going  out !  " 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  Could  I  believe  my  eyes? 
Seven  seconds,  seven  minutes  past  one — his  "  hunch  " 
was  right;  his  guardian  angel  had  intervened;  the 
Jam-wagon  had  been  given  his  chance  to  make  a  new 
start. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  waters  were  wild  with  joy.  From  the  moun- 
tain snows  the  sun  had  set  them  free.  Down  hill 
and  dale  they  sparkled,  trickling  from  boulders, 
dripping  from  mossy  crannies,  rioting  in  narrow  run- 
lets. Then,  leaping  and  laughing  in  a  mad  ecstasy 
of  freedom,  they  dashed  into  the  dam. 

Here  was  something  they  did  not  understand, 
some  contrivance  of  the  tyrant  Man  to  curb  them, 
to  harness  them,  to  make  them  his  slaves.  The  wa- 
ters were  angry.  They  gloomed  fearsomely.  As 
they  swelled  higher  in  the  broad  basin  their  wrath 
grew  apace.  They  chafed  against  their  prison  walls, 
they  licked  and  lapped  at  the  stolid  bank.  Higher 
and  higher  they  mounted,  growing  stronger  with 
every  leap.  More  and  more  bitterly  they  fretted  at 
their  durance.  Behind  them  other  waters  were  press- 
ing, just  as  eager  to  escape  as  they.  They  lashed 
and  writhed  in  savage  spite.  Not  much  longer  could 
these  patient  walls  withstand  their  anger.  Something 
must  happen. 

The  "  something  "  was  a  man.  He  raised  the 
floodgate,  and  there  at  last  was  a  way  of  escape. 
How  joyously  the  eager  waters  rushed  at  it!  They 
tumbled  and  tossed  in  their  mad  hurry  to  get  out. 
They  surged  and  swept  and  roared  about  the  nar- 
row opening. 

43^ 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  437 

But  what  was  this?  They  had  come  on  a  wooden 
box  that  streaked  down  the  slope  as  straight 
as  an  arrow  from  the  bow.  It  was  some  other 
scheme  of  the  tyrant  Man.  Nevertheless,  they 
jostled  and  jammed  to  get  into  it.  On  its  brink 
they  poised  a  moment,  then  down,  down  they  dashed. 

Like  a  cataract  they  rushed,  ever  and  ever  grow- 
ing faster.  Ho !  this  was  motion  now,  this  was  ac- 
tion, strength,  power.  As  they  shot  down  that  steep 
hill  they  shrieked  for  very  joy.  Freedom,  freedom 
at  last!  No  more  trickling  feebly  from  snowbanks; 
no  more  boring  devious  channels  in  oozy  clay,  no 
more  stagnating  in  sullen  dams.  They  were  alive, 
alive,  swift,  intense,  terrific.  They  gloried  in  their 
might.  They  roared  the  raucous  song  of  freedom, 
and  faster  and  faster  they  charged.  Like  a  stam- 
pede of  maddened  horses  they  thundered  on.  What 
power  on  earth  could  stop  them?  "We  must  be 
free  !    We  must  be  free  !  "  they  cried. 

Suddenly  they  saw  ahead  the  black  hole  of  a  great 
pipe,  a  hollow  shard  of  steel.  Prison-like  it  looked, 
again  some  contrivance  of  the  tyrant  Man.  They 
would  fain  have  overleapt  it,  but  it  was  too  late. 
Countless  other  waters  were  behind  them,  forcing 
them  forward  with  irresistible  power.  And,  faster 
and  faster  still,  they  crashed  into  the  shard  of  steel. 

They  were  trapped,  atrociously  trapped,  cabined, 
confined,  rammed  forward  by  a  vast  and  remorseless 
pressure.  Yet  there  was  escape  just  ahead.  It  was 
a  tiny  point  of  light,  an  outlet.  They  must  squeeze 
through  it.    They  were  crushed  and  pinioned  in  that 


438  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

prison  of  steel,  and  mightily  they  tried  to  burst  it. 
No!  there  was  only  that  orifice;  they  must  pass 
through  it.  Then  with  that  great  force  behind  them, 
tortured,  maddened,  desperate,  the  waters  crashed 
through  the  shard  of  steel,  to  serve  the  will  of  Man. 

The  man  stood  by  his  water-gun  and  from  its 
nozzle  the  gleaming  terror  leapt.  At  first  it  was  only 
a  slim  volley  of  light,  compact  and  solid  as  a  shaft 
of  steel.  To  pierce  it  would  have  splintered  to  pieces 
the  sharpest  sword.  It  was  a  core  of  water,  round, 
glistening  and  smooth,  yet  in  its  mighty  power  it  was 
a  monster  of  destruction. 

The  man  was  directing  it  here  and  there  on  the 
face  of  the  hill.  It  flew  like  an  arrow  from  the 
bow,  and  wherever  he  aimed  it  the  hillside  seemed 
to  reel  and  shudder  at  the  shock.  Great  cataracts 
of  gravel  shot  out,  avalanches  of  clay  toppled  over; 
vast  boulders  were  hurled  into  the  air  like  heaps  of 
fleecy  wool. 

Yes,  the  waters  were  mad.  They  were  like  an 
angry  bull  that  gored  the  hillside.  It  seemed  to  melt 
and  dissolve  before  them.  Nothing  could  withstand 
that  assault.  In  a  few  minutes  they  would  reduce 
the  stoutest  stronghold  to  a  heap  of  pitiful  ruins. 

There,  where  the  waters  shot  forth  in  their  fury, 
stood  their  conqueror.  He  was  one  man,  yet  he  was 
doing  the  work  of  a  hundred.  As  he  battered  at 
that  bank  of  clay  he  exulted  in  his  power.  A  little 
turn  of  the  wrist  and  a  huge  mass  of  gravel  crum- 
bled into  nothingness.  He  bored  deep  holes  in  the 
frozen  muck,   he  hammered  his  way  down  to  bed 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  439 

rock,  he  swept  it  clean  as  a  floor.  There,  with  the 
solid  force  of  a  battering-ram,  he  pounded  at  the 
heart  of  the  hill. 

The  roar  deafened  him.  He  heard  the  crash  of 
falling  rock,  but  he  was  so  intent  on  his  work  he  did 
net  hear  another  man  approach.  Suddenly  he  looked 
up  and  saw. 

He  gave  a  mighty  start,  then  at  once  he  was  calm 
again.  This  was  the  meeting  he  had  dreaded,  longed 
for,  fought  against,  desired.  Primordial  emotions 
surged  within  him,  but  outwardly  he  gave  no  sign. 
Almost  savagely,  and  with  a  curious  blaze  in  his 
eyes  he  redirected  the  little  giant. 

He  waved  his  hand  to  the  other  man. 

"Go  away!"  he  shouted. 

Mosher  refused  to  budge.  The  generous  living 
of  Dawson  had  made  him  pursy,  almost  porcine. 
His  pig  eyes  glittered,  and  he  took  off  his  hat  to 
wipe  some  beads  of  sweat  from  the  monumental 
baldness  of  his  forehead.  He  caressed  his  coal- 
black  beard  with  a  podgy  hand  on  which  a  large 
diamond  sparkled.  His  manner  was  arrogance  per- 
sonified. He  seemed  to  say,  "  I'll  make  this  man 
dance  to  my  music." 

His  rich,  penetrating  voice  pierced  through  the 
roar  of  the  "  giant." 

"  Here,  turn  off  your  water.  I  want  to  speak  to 
you.    Got  a  business  proposition  to  make." 

Still  Jim  was  dumb. 

Mosher  came  close  to  him  and  shouted  into  his 
ear.    The  two  men  were  very  calm. 


440  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  Say,  your  wife's  in  town.  Been  there  for  the 
last  year.     Didn't  you  know  It?" 

Jim  shook  his  head.  He  was  particularly  inter- 
ested In  his  work  just  then.  There  was  a  great  sad- 
dle of  clay,  and  he  scooped  It  up  magically. 

"  Yes,  she's  In  town — living  respectable." 

Jim  redirected  his  giant  with  a  savage  swish. 

"  Say,  I'm  a  sort  of  a  phllant'ropic  guy,"  went  on 
Mosher,  "  an'  there's  nothing  I  like  better  than  do- 
ing the  erring  wife  restltootion  act.  I  think  I  could 
induce  that  little  woman  of  yours  to  come  back  to 
you." 

Jim  gave  him  a  swift  glance,  but  the  man  went  on. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  she's  a  bit  stuck  on  me.  Not 
my  fault,  of  course.  Can't  help  It  if  a  girl  gets 
daffy  on  me.  But  say,  I  think  I  could  get  her 
switched  on  to  you  if  you  made  it  worth  my  while. 
It's  a  business  proposition." 

He  was  sneering  now,  frankly  villainous.  Jim 
gave  no  sign. 

"  What  d'ye  say?  This  is  a  likely  bit  of  ground — 
give  me  a  half-share  in  this  ground,  an'  I'll  guaran- 
tee to  deliver  that  little  piece  of  goods  to  you. 
There's  an  offer." 

Again  that  smug  look  of  generosity  beamed  on  the 
man's  face.  Once  more  Jim  motioned  him  to  go, 
but  Mosher  did  not  heed.  He  thought  the  gesture 
was  a  refusal.  His  face  grew  threatening.  "All 
right,  if  you  won't,"  he  snarled,  "look  out!  I 
know  you  love  her  still.  Let  me  tell  you,  I  own 
that  woman,  body  and  soul,  and  I'll  make  life  hell 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  441 

for  her.  I'll  torture  you  through  her.  Yes,  I've  got 
a  cinch.     You'd  better  change  your  mind." 

He  had  stepped  back  as  if  to  go.  Then,  whether 
it  was  an  accident  or  not  no  one  will  ever  know — 
but  the  little  giant  swung  round  till  it  bore  on  him. 

It  lifted  him  up  in  the  air.  It  shot  him  forward 
like  a  stone  from  a  catapult.  It  landed  him  on 
the  bank  fifty  feet  away  with  a  sickening  crash. 
Then,  as  he  lay,  it  pounded  and  battered  him  out 
of  all  semblance  of  a  man. 

The  waters  were  having  their  revenge. 


\ 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  There's  something  the  matter  with  Jim,"  the 
Prodigal  'phoned  to  me  from  the  Forks;  "  he's  gone 
off  and  left  the  cabin  on  Ophir,  taken  to  the  hills. 
Some  prospectors  have  just  come  in  and  say  they 
met  him  heading  for  the  White  Snake  Valley. 
Seemed  kind  of  queer,  they  say.  Wouldn't  talk 
much.  They  thought  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  go 
crazy." 

"  He's  never  been  right  since  the  accident,"  I 
answered;  "  we'll  have  to  go  after  him." 

"  All  right.  Come  up  at  once.  Pll  get  McCrim- 
mon.  He's  a  good  man  in  the  woods.  We'll  be 
ready  to  start  as  soon  as  you  arrive." 

So  the  following  day  found  the  three  of  us  on  the 
trail  to  Ophir.  We  travelled  lightly,  carrying  very 
little  food,  for  we  thought  to  find  game  in  the  woods. 
On  the  evening  of  the  following  day  we  reached  the 
cabin. 

Jim  must  have  gone  very  suddenly.  There  were 
the  remains  of  a  meal  on  the  table,  and  his  Bible 
was  gone  from  its  place.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  follow  and  find  him. 

"  By  going  to  the  headwaters  of  Ophir  Creek," 
said  the  Halfbreed,  "  we  can  cross  a  divide  into 
the  valley  of  the  White  Snake,  and  there  we'll  corral 
him,  I  guess." 

442 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  443 

So  we  left  the  trail  and  plunged  into  the  virgin 
Wild.  Oh,  but  it  was  hard  travelling!  Often  we 
would  keep  straight  up  the  creek-bed,  plunging 
through  pools  that  were  knee-deep,  and  walking  over 
shingly  bars.  Then,  to  avoid  a  big  bend  of  the 
stream,  we  would  strike  off  through  the  bush.  Every 
yard  seemed  to  have  its  obstacle.  There  were  wind- 
falls and  tangled  growths  of  bush  that  defied  our 
uttermost  efforts  to  penetrate  them.  There  were 
viscid  sloughs,  from  whose  black  depths  bubbles 
arose  wearily,  with  grey  tree-roots  like  the  legs  of 
spiders  clutching  the  slimy  mud  of  their  banks. 
There  were  oozy  bottoms,  rankly  speared  with  rush- 
grass.  There  were  leprous  marshes  spotted  with  un- 
sightly niggerheads.  Dripping  with  sweat,  we 
fought  our  way  under  the  hot  sun.  Thorny  boughs 
tore  at  us  detainingly.  Fallen  trees  delighted  to  bar 
our  way.  Without  let  or  cease  we  toiled,  yet  at  the 
day's  end  our  progress  was  but  a  meagre  one. 

Our  greatest  bane  was  the  mosquitoes.  Night  and 
day  they  never  ceased  to  nag  us.  We  wore  veils  and 
had  gloves  on  our  hands,  so  that  under  our  armour  we 
were  able  to  grin  defiance  at  them.  But  on  the  other 
side  of  that  netting  they  buzzed  in  an  angry  grey 
cloud.  To  raise  our  veils  and  take  a  drink  was  to 
be  assaulted  ferociously.  As  we  walked  we  could 
feel  them  resisting  our  progress,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
we  were  forcing  our  way  through  solid  banks  of 
them.  If  we  rested,  they  alighted  in  such  myriads 
that  soon  we  appeared  literally  sheathed  in  tiny  atoms 
of  insect  hfe,  vainly  trying  to  pierce  the  mesh  of  our 


444  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

clothing.  To  bare  a  hand  was  to  have  it  covered 
with  blood  In  a  moment,  and  the  thought  of  being  at 
their  mercy  was  an  exquisitely  horrible  one.  Night 
and  day  their  voices  blended  in  a  vast  drone,  so  that 
we  ate,  drank  and  slept  under  our  veils. 

In  that  rankly  growing  wilderness  we  saw  no  sign 
of  life,  not  even  a  rabbit.  It  was  all  desolate  and 
God-forsaken.  By  nightfall  our  packs  seemed  very 
heavy,  our  limbs  very  tired.  Three  days,  four  days, 
five  days  passed.  The  creek  was  attenuated  and  hesi- 
tating, so  we  left  it  and  struck  off  over  the  moun- 
tains. Soon  we  cHmbed  to  where  the  timber  growth 
was  less  obstructive.  The  hillside  was  steep,  almost 
vertical  in  places,  and  was  covered  with  a  strange, 
deep  growth  of  moss.  Down  In  It  we  sank,  in  places 
to  our  knees,  and  beneath  It  we  could  feel  the  points 
of  sharp  boulders.  As  we  climbed  we  plunged  our 
hands  deep  Into  the  cool  cushion  of  the  moss,  and 
half  dragged  ourselves  upward.  It  was  like  an  Ori- 
ental rug  covering  the  stony  ribs  of  the  hill,  a  rug 
of  bizarre  colouring,  strangely  patterned  in  crimson 
and  amber,  in  emerald  and  ivory.  Birch-trees  of 
slim,  silvery  beauty  arose  in  it,  and  aided  us  as  we 
climbed. 

So  we  came  at  last,  after  a  weary  journey,  to  a 
bleak,  boulder-studded  plateau.  It  was  above  timber- 
line,  and  carpeted  with  moss  of  great  depth  and 
gaudy  hue.  Suddenly  we  saw  two  vast  pillars  of 
stone  upstanding  on  the  aching  barren.  I  think  they 
must  have  been  two  hundred  feet  high,  and,  like 
monstrous   sentinels   In   their   lonely   isolation,   they 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  445 

overlooked  that  vast  tundra.  They  startled  us.  We 
wondered  by  what  strange  freak  of  nature  they  were 
stationed  there. 

Then  we  dropped  down  Into  a  vast,  hush-filled  val- 
ley, a  valley  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  undis- 
turbed since  the  beginning  of  time.  Like  a  spirit- 
haunted  place  it  was,  so  strange  and  still.  It  was 
loneliness  made  visible.  It  was  stillness  written  in 
wood  and  stone.  I  would  have  been  afraid  to  enter 
it  alone,  and  even  as  we  sank  in  its  death-haunted 
dusk  I  shuddered  with  a  horror  of  the  place. 

The  Indians  feared  and  shunned  this  valley.  They 
said,  of  old,  strange  things  had  happened  there;  it 
had  been  full  of  noise  and  fire  and  steam;  the  earth 
had  opened  up,  belching  forth  great  dragons  that 
destroyed  the  people.  And  indeed  it  was  all  like 
the  vast  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  for  hot  springs 
bubbled  forth  and  a  grey  ash  cropped  up  through  the 
shallow  soil. 

There  was  no  game  in  the  valley.  In  its  centre 
was  a  solitary  lake,  black  and  bottomless,  and 
haunted  by  a  giant  white  water-snake,  sluggish,  blind 
and  very  old.  Stray  prospectors  swore  they  had  seen 
it,  just  at  dusk,  and  its  sightless,  staring  eyes  were 
too  terrible  ever  to  forget. 

And  into  this  still,  cobweb-hued  hollow  we 
dropped — dropped  almost  straight  down  over  the 
flanks  of  those  lean,  lank  mountains  that  fringed  it 
so  forlornly.  Here,  ringed  all  around  by  desolate 
heights,  we  were  as  remote  from  the  world  as  if  we 
were  in  some  sallow  solitude  of  the  moon.     Some- 


446  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

times  the  valley  was  like  a  gaping  mouth,  and  the 
lips  of  it  were  livid  grey.  Sometimes  it  was  like  a 
cup  into  which  the  sunset  poured  a  golden  wine  and 
filled  it  quivering  to  the  brim.  Sometimes  it  was  like 
a  grey  grave  full  of  silence.  And  here  in  this  place 
of  shadows,  where  the  lichen  strangled  the  trees, 
and  under-foot  the  moss  hushed  the  tread,  where  we 
spoke  in  whispers,  and  mirth  seemed  a  mockery, 
where  every  stick  and  stone  seemed  eloquent  of  dis- 
enchantment and  despair,  here  in  this  valley  of  Dead 
Things  we  found  Jim. 

He  was  sitting  by  a  dying  camp-fire,  all  huddled 
up,  his  arms  embracing  his  knees,  his  eyes  on  the 
fading  embers.  As  we  drew  near  he  did  not  move, 
did  not  show  any  surprise,  did  not  even  raise  his 
head.  His  face  was  very  pale  and  drawn  into  a 
pucker  of  pain.  It  was  the  queerest  look  I  ever  saw 
on  a  man's  face.     It  made  me  creep. 

His  eyes  followed  us  furtively.  Silently  we  squat- 
ted in  a  ring  round  his  camp-fire.  For  a  while  we 
said  no  word,  then  at  last  the  Prodigal  spoke : 

"  Jim,  you're  coming  back  with  us,  aren't 
you?" 

Jim  looked  at  him. 

"  Hush!  "  says  he,  "  don't  speak  so  loud.  You'll 
waken  all  them  dead  fellows." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

*'  Them  dead  fellows.  The  woods  is  full  of  them, 
them  that  can't  rest.  They're  all  around,  ghosts. 
At  night,  when  I'm  a-sittin'  over  the  fire,  they 
crawl  out  of  the  darkness,  an'  they  get  close  to  me. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  447 

closer,  closer,  an'  they  whisper  things.  Then  I  get 
scared  an'  I  shoo  them  away." 

"  What  do  they  whisper,  Jim?  " 

"Oh  say!  they  tell  me  all  kinds  of  things, 
them  fellows  in  the  woods.  They  tell  me  of  the 
times  they  used  to  have  here  in  the  valley;  an'  how 
they  was  a  great  people,  an'  had  women  an'  slaves; 
how  they  fought  an'  sang  an'  got  drunk,  an'  how 
their  kingdom  was  here,  right  here  where  it's  all 
death  an'  desolation.  An'  how  they  conquered  all 
the  other  folks  around  an'  killed  the  men  an'  cap- 
tured the  women.  Oh,  it  was  long,  long  ago,  long 
before  the  flood!  " 

"  Well,  Jim,  never  mind  them.  Get  your  pack 
ready.     We're  going  home  right  now." 

"  Goin'  home? — I've  no  home  any  more.  I'm  a 
fugitive  an'  a  vagabond  in  the  earth.  The  blood 
of  my  brother  crieth  unto  me  from  the  ground.  From 
the  face  of  the  Lord  shall  I  be  hid  an'  every  one  that 
findeth  me  shall  slay  me.  I  have  no  home  but  the 
wilderness.  Unto  it  I  go  with  prayer  an'  fastin'. 
I  have  killed,  I  have  killed !  " 

"  Nonsense,  Jim;  it  was  an  accident." 

"Was  it?  Was  it?  God  only  knows;  I  don't. 
Only  I  know  the  thought  of  murder  was  black  in 
my  heart.  It  was  there  for  ever  an'  ever  so  long. 
How  I  fought  against  it!  Then,  just  at  that  mo- 
ment, everything  seemed  to  come  to  a  head,  I 
don't  know  that  I  meant  what  I  did,  but  I  thought 


it." 


"  Come  home,  Jim,  and  forget  it." 


448  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  When  the  rivers  start  to  run  up  them  mountain 
peaks  I'll  forget  it.  No,  they  won't  let  me  forget 
it,  them  ghosts.  They  whisper  to  me  all  the  time. 
Hist !  don't  you  hear  them  ?  They're  whispering  to 
me  now.  '  You're  a  murderer,  Jim,  a  murderer,' 
they  say.  '  The  brand  of  Cain  is  on  you,  Jim,  the 
brand  of  Cain.'  Then  the  little  leaves  of  the  trees 
take  up  the  whisper,  an'  the  waters  murmur  it,  an' 
the  very  stones  cry  out  ag'in  me,  an'  I  can't  shut  out 
the  sound.     I  can't,  I  can't." 

"Hush,  Jim!" 

"  No,  no,  the  devil's  a-hoein'  out  a  place  in  the 
embers  for  me.  I  can't  turn  no  more  to  the  Lord. 
He's  cast  me  out,  an'  the  light  of  His  countenance  is 
darkened  to  me.     Never  again ;  oh,  never  again !  " 

"  Oh  come,  Jim,  for  the  sake  of  your  old  part- 
ners, come  home." 

"  Well,  boys,  I'll  come.  But  it's  no  good.  I'm 
down  an'  out." 

Wearily  we  gathered  together  his  few  belongings. 
He  had  been  living  on  bread,  and  but  little  remained. 
Had  we  not  reached  him,  he  would  have  starved.  He 
came  like  a  child,  but  seemed  a  prey  to  acute 
melancholy. 

It  was  indeed  a  sad  party  that  trailed  down  that 
sad,  dead  valley.  The  trees  were  hung  with  a  dreary 
drapery  of  grey,  and  the  ashen  moss  muffled  our  foot- 
falls. I  think  it  was  the  deadest  place  I  ever  saw. 
The  very  air  seemed  dead  and  stale,  as  if  it  were 
eternally  still,  unstirred  by  any  wind.  Spiders  and 
strange  creeping  things  possessed  the  trees,  and  at 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  449 

every  step,  like  white  gauze,  a  mist  of  mosquitoes 
was  thrown  up.    And  the  way  seemed  endless. 

A  great  weariness  weighed  upon  our  spirits.  Our 
feet  flagged  and  our  shoulders  were  bowed.  As  we 
looked  into  each  other's  faces  we  saw  there  a  strange 
lassitude,  a  chill,  grey  despair.  Our  voices  sounded 
hollow  and  queer,  and  we  seldom  spoke.  It  was  as 
if  the  place  was  a  vampire  that  was  sucking  the  life 
and  health  from  our  veins. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  old  man's  going  to  play  out  on 
us,"  whispered  the  Prodigal. 

Jim  lagged  forlornly  behind,  and  it  was  very 
anxiously  we  watched  him.  He  seemed  to  know  that 
he  was  keeping  us  back.  His  efforts  to  keep  up  were 
pitiful.  We  feigned  an  equal  weariness,  not  to  dis- 
tress him,  and  our  progress  was  slow,  slow. 

"Looks  as  if  we'll  have  to  go  on  "half-rations," 
said  the  Halfbreed.  "  It's  taking  longer  to  get  out 
of  this  valley  than  I  figured  on." 

And  Indeed  It  was  like  a  vast  prison,  and  those 
peaks  that  brindled  In  the  sunset  glow  were  like  bars 
to  hold  us  In.  Every  day  the  old  man's  step  was 
growing  slower,  so  that  at  last  we  were  barely  crawl- 
ing along.  We  were  ascending  the  western  slope  of 
the  valley,  climbing  a  few  miles  a  day,  and  every 
step  we  rose  from  that  sump-hole  of  the  gods  was 
like  the  lifting  of  a  weight.  We  were  tired,  tired, 
and  in  the  wan  light  that  filtered  through  the  leaden 
clouds  our  faces  were  white  and  strained. 

"  I  guess  we'll  have  to  go  on  quarter-rations  from 
now,"  said  the  Halfbreed,  a  few  days  later.     He 


450  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

ranged  far  and  wide,  looking  for  game,  but  never  a 
sign  did  he  see.  Once,  indeed,  we  heard  a  shot. 
Eagerly  we  waited  his  return,  but  all  he  had  got  was 
a  great,  grey  owl,  which  we  cooked  and  ate 
ravenously. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

At  last,  at  last  we  had  climbed  over  the  divide,  and 
left  behind  us  forever  the  vampire  valley.  Oh,  we 
were  glad !  But  other  troubles  were  coming.  Soon 
the  day  came  when  the  last  of  our  grub  ran  out. 
I  remember  how  solemnly  we  ate  it.  We  were  al- 
ready more  than  three-parts  starved,  and  that  meal 
was  but  a  mouthful. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Halfbreed,  "  we  can't  be  far 
from  the  Yukon  now.  It  must  be  the  valley  beyond 
this  one.  Then,  in  a  few  days,  we  can  make  a  raft 
and  float  down  to  Dawson." 

This  heartened  us,  so  once  more  we  took  up  our 
packs  and  started.     Jim  did  not  move. 

*'  Come  on,  Jim." 

Still  no  movement. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Jim?     Come  on." 

He  turned  to  us  a  face  that  was  grey  and  death- 
like. 

"  Go  on,  boys.  Don't  mind  me.  My  time's  up. 
I'm  an  old  man.  I'm  only  keeping  you  back.  With- 
out me  you've  got  a  chance;  with  me  you've  got  none. 
Leave  me  here  with  a  gun.  I  can  shoot  an'  rustle 
grub.  You  boys  can  come  back  for  me.  You'll  find 
old  Jim  spry  an'  chipper,  awaitin'  you  with  a  smile 
on  his  face.    Now  go,  boys.    You'll  go,  won't  you?  " 

"Go    be    darned!"    said    the    Prodigal.      "You 

451 


452  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

know  we'll  never  leave  you,  Jim.  You  know  the 
code  of  the  trail.  What  d'ye  take  us  for — skunks? 
Come  on,  we'll  carry  you  if  you  can't  walk." 

He  shook  his  head  pitifully,  but  once  more  he 
crawled  after  us.  We  ourselves  were  making  no 
great  speed.  Lack  of  food  was  beginning  to  tell  on 
us.     Our  stomachs  were  painfully  empty  and  dead. 

"  How  d'ye  feel?  "  asked  the  Prodigal.  His  face 
had  an  arrestively  hollow  look,  but  that  frozen  smile 
was  set  on  it. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "only  terribly  weak.  My 
head  aches  at  times,  but  I've  got  no  pain." 

"  Neither  have  I.  This  starving  racket's  a  cinch. 
It's  dead  easy.  What  rot  they  talk  about  the  gnaw- 
ing pains  of  hunger,  an'  ravenous  men  chewing  up 
their  boot-tops.  It's  easy.  There's  no  pain.  I  don't 
even  feel  hungry  any  more." 

None  of  us  did.  It  was  as  if  our  stomachs,  in  de- 
spair at  not  receiving  any  food,  had  sunk  into  apathy. 
Yet  there  was  no  doubt  we  were  terribly  weak.  We 
only  made  a  few  miles  a  day  now,  and  even  that 
was  an  effort.  The  distance  seemed  to  be  elastic,  to 
stretch  out  under  our  feet.  Every  few  yards  we  had 
to  help  Jim  over  a  bad  place.  His  body  was  emaci- 
ated and  he  was  getting  very  feeble.  A  hollow  fire 
burned  in  his  eyes.  The  Halfbreed  persisted  that 
beyond  those  despotic  mountains  lay  the  Yukon  Val- 
ley, and  at  night  he  would  rouse  us  up : 

"  Say,  boys,  I  hear  the  '  toot  '  of  a  steamer.  Just 
a  few  more  days  and  we'll  get  there." 

Running  through   the   valley,    we    found   a   little 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  453 

river.  It  was  muddy  in  colour  and  appeared  to  con- 
tain no  fish.  We  ranged  along  it  eagerly,  hoping  to 
find  a  few  minnows,  but  without  success.  It  seemed 
to  me,  as  I  foraged  here  and  there  for  food,  it  was 
not  hunger  that  impelled  me  so  much  as  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation.  I  knew  that  if  I  did  not  get 
something  into  my  stomach  I  would  surely  die. 

Down  the  river  we  trailed  forlornly.  For  a  week 
we  had  eaten  nothing.  Jim  had  held  on  bravely,  but 
now  he  gave  up. 

"  For  God's  sake,  leave  me,  boys  !  Don't  make  me 
feel  guilty  of  your  death.  Haven't  I  got  enough  on 
my  soul  already?  For  God's  pity,  lads,  save  your- 
selves !     Leave  me  here  to  die." 

He  pleaded  brokenly.  His  legs  seemed  to  have 
become  paralysed.  Every  time  we  stopped  he  would 
pitch  forward  on  his  face,  or  while  walking  he  would 
fall  asleep  and  drop.  The  Prodigal  and  I  supported 
him,  but  it  was  truly  hard  to  support  ourselves,  and 
sometimes  we  collapsed,  coming  down  all  three  to- 
gether in  a  confused  and  helpless  heap.  The  Prodi- 
gal still  wore  that  set  grin.  His  face  was  nigh  flesh- 
less,  and,  through  the  straggling  beard,  it  sometimes 
minded  me  of  a  grinning  skull.  Always  Jim  moaned 
and  pleaded: 

"  Leave  me,  dear  boys,  leave  me  !  " 

He  was  like  a  drunken  man,  and  his  every  step 
was  agony. 

We  threw  away  our  packs.  We  no  longer  had 
the  strength  to  bear  them.  The  last  thing  to  go  was 
the  Halfbreed's  rifle.     Several  times  it  dropped  out 


454  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

of  his  hand.  He  picked  it  up  in  a  dazed  way. 
Again  and  again  it  dropped,  but  at  last  the  time  came 
when  he  no  longer  picked  it  up.  He  looked  at  it 
for  a  stupid  while,  then  staggered  on  without  it. 

At  night  we  would  rest  long  hours  round  the  camp- 
fire.  Often  far  into  the  day  would  we  rest.  Jim 
lay  like  a  dead  man,  moaning  continually,  while  we, 
staring  into  each  other's  ghastly  faces,  talked  in 
jerks.  It  was  an  effort  to  hunt  food.  It  was  an  ef- 
fort to  goad  ourselves  to  continue  the  journey. 

"  Sure  the  river  empties  into  the  Yukon,  boys," 
said  the  Halfbreed.  "  'Tain't  so  far,  either.  If  we 
can  just  make  a  few  miles  more  we'll  be  all  right." 

At  night,  in  my  sleep,  I  was  a  prey  to  the  strangest 
hallucinations.  People  I  had  known  came  and  talked 
to  me.  They  were  so  real  that,  when  I  awoke,  I 
could  scarce  believe  I  had  been  dreaming.  Berna 
came  to  me  often.  She  came  quite  close,  with  great 
eyes  of  pity  that  looked  into  mine.    Her  lips  moved. 

"  Be  brave,  my  boy.  Don't  despair,"  she  pleaded. 
Always  in  my  dreams  she  pleaded  like  that,  and  I 
think  that  but  for  her  I  would  have  given  up. 

The  Halfbreed  was  the  most  resolute  of  the  party. 
He  never  lost  his  head.  At  times  we  others  raved 
a  little,  or  laughed  a  little,  or  cried  a  little,  but  the 
Halfbreed  remained  cool  and  grim.  Ceaselessly  he 
foraged  for  food.  Once  he  found  a  nest  of  grouse 
eggs,  and,  breaking  them  open,  discovered  they  con- 
tained half-formed  birds.  We  ate  them  just  as  they 
were,  crunched  them  between  our  swollen  gums. 
Snails,  too,  we  ate  sometimes,   and  grass  roots  and 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  455 

moss  which  we  scraped  from  the  trees.  But  our 
greatest  luck  was  the  decayed  grouse  eggs. 

Early  one  afternoon  we  were  all  resting  by  a 
camp-fire  on  which  was  boiling  some  moss,  when  sud- 
denly the  Halfbreed  pointed.  There,  in  a  glade 
down  by  the  river's  edge,  were  a  cow  moose  and  calf. 
They  were  drinking.  Stupidly  we  gazed.  I  saw  the 
Halfbreed's  hand  go  out  as  if  to  clutch  the  rifle. 
Alas!  his  fingers  closed  on  the  empty  air.  So  near 
they  were  we  could  have  struck  them  with  a  stone. 
Taking  his  sheath  knife  in  his  mouth,  the  Halfbreed 
started  to  crawl  on  his  belly  towards  them.  He  had 
gone  but  a  few  yards  when  they  winded  him.  One 
look  they  gave,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were 
miles  away.  That  was  the  only  time  I  saw  the  Half- 
breed put  out.  He  fell  on  his  face  and  lay  there 
for  a  long  time. 

Often  we  came  to  sloughs  that  we  could  not  cross, 
and  we  had  to  go  round  them.  We  tried  to  build 
rafts,  but  we  were  too  weak  to  navigate  them.  We 
were  afraid  we  would  roll  off  into  the  deep  black 
water  and  drown  feebly.  So  we  went  round,  which 
in  one  case  meant  ten  miles.  Once,  over  a  slough  a 
few  yards  wide,  the  Halfbreed  built  a  bridge  of  wil- 
lows, and  we  crawled  on  hands  and  knees  to  the 
other  side. 

From  a  certain  point  our  trip  seems  like  a  night- 
mare to  me.  I  can  only  remember  parts  of  it  here 
and  there.  We  reeled  like  drunken  men.  We  sobbed 
sometimes,  and  sometimes  we  prayed.  There  was 
no  word  from  Jim  now,  not  even  a  whimper,  as  we 


456  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

half  dragged,  half  carried  him  on.  Our  eyes  were 
large  with  fever,  our  hands  were  like  claws.  Long 
sickly  beards  grew  on  our  faces.  Our  clothes  were 
rags,  and  vermin  overran  us.  We  had  lost  all  track 
of  time.  Latterly  we  had  been  travelling  about  half 
a  mile  a  day,  and  we  must  have  been  twenty  days 
without  proper  food. 

The  Halfbreed  had  crawled  ahead  a  mile  or  so, 
"•^nd  he  came  back  to  where  we  lay.  In  a  voice  hoarse 
almost  to  a  whisper  he  told  us  a  bigger  river  joined 
ours  down  there,  and  on  the  bar  was  an  old  Indian 
camp.  Perhaps  in  that  place  some  one  might  find  us.  It 
seemed  on  the  route  of  travel.  So  we  made  a  last 
despairing  effort  and  reached  It.  Indians  had  vis- 
ited it  quite  recently.  We  foraged  around  and 
found  some  putrid  fish  bones,  with  which  we  made 
soup. 

There  was  a  grave  set  high  on  stilts,  and  within 
it  a  body  covered  with  canvas.  The  Halfbreed 
wrenched  the  canvas  from  the  body,  and  with  it  he 
made  a  boat  eight  feet  in  length  by  six  In  breadth. 
It  was  too  rotten  to  hold  him  up,  and  he  nearly 
drowned  trying  to  float  it,  so  he  left  it  lying  on  the 
edge  of  the  bar.  I  remember  this  was  a  terrible  dis- 
appointment to  us,  and  we  wept  bitterly.  I  think 
that  about  this  time  we  were  all  half-crazy.  We  lay 
on  that  bar  like  men  already  dead,  with  no  longer 
hope  of  deliverance. 

Then  Jim  passed  in  his  checks.  In  the  night  he 
called  me. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  457 

"  Boy,"  he  whispered,  "  you  an'  I'se  been  good 
pals,   ain't  we?  " 

"  Yes,  old  man." 

"  Boy,  I'm  In  agony.  I'm  suffering  untold  pain. 
Get  the  gun,  for  God's  sake,  an'  put  me  out  of  my 
misery." 

"There's  no  gun,  Jim;  we  left  it  back  on  the 
trail." 

"  Then  take  your  knife." 

"  No,  no." 

"  Give  me  your  knife." 

"  Jim,  you're  crazy.  Where's  your  faith  in 
God?" 

"  Gone,  gone;  I've  no  longer  any  right  to  look 
to  Him.  I've  killed.  I've  taken  life  He  gave. 
*  Vengeance  Is  mine,'  He  said,  an'  I've  taken  it  out 
of  His  hands.  God's  curse  is  on  me  now.  Oh,  let 
me  die,  let  me  die !  " 

I  sat  by  him  all  night.  He  moaned  in  agony,  and 
his  passing  was  hard.  It  was  about  three  In  the 
morning  when  he  spoke  again : 

"  Say,  boy,  I'm  going.  I'm  a  useless  old  man. 
I've  lived  In  sin,  an'  I've  repented,  an'  I've  backslid. 
The  Lord  don't  want  old  Jim  any  more.  Say,  kid, 
see  that  little  girl  of  mine  down  In  Dawson  gets  what 
money's  comin'  to  me.  Tell  her  to  keep  straight,  an' 
tell  her  I  loved  her.  Tell  her  I  never  let  up  on 
lovln'  her  all  these  years.  You'll  remember  that, 
boy,  won't  you?  " 

I'll  remember,  Jim." 

Oh,  it's  all  a  hoodoo,  this  Northern  gold,"  he 


(<  T'l 


458  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

moaned.  "  See  what  it's  done  for  all  of  us.  We 
came  to  loot  the  land  an'  it's  a-takin'  its  revenge  on 
us.  It's  accursed.  It's  got  me  at  last,  but  maybe  I 
can  help  you  boys  to  beat  it  yet.     Call  the  others." 

I  called  them. 

"  Boys,"  said  Jim,  "  I'm  a-goin'.  I've  been  a 
long  time  about  it.  I've  been  dying  by  inches,  but 
I  guess  I'll  finish  the  job  pretty  slick  this  time. 
Well,  boys,  I'm  in  possession  of  all  my  faculties.  I 
want  you  to  know  that.  I  was  crazy  when  I  started 
off,  but  that's  passed  away.  My  mind's  clear.  Now, 
pardners,  I've  got  you  into  this  scrape.  I'm  responsi- 
ble, an'  it  seems  to  me  I'd  die  happier  if  you'd  prom- 
ise me  one  thing.  Livin',  I  can't  help  you;  dead, 
I  can — you  know'  how.  Well,  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  you'll  do  it.  It's  a  reasonable  proposition.  Don't 
hesitate.  Don't  let  sentiment  stop  you.  I  wish  it. 
It's  my  dying  wish.  You're  starvin',  an'  I  can  help 
you,  can  give  you  strength.  Will  you  promise,  if  it 
comes  to  the  last  pass,  you'll  do  it?  " 

We  were  afraid  to  look  each  other  in  the  face. 

"  Oh,  promise,  boys,  promise!  " 

"  Promise  him  anyway,"  said  the  Halfbreed. 
"  He'll  die  easier." 

So  we  nodded  our  heads  as  we  bent  over  him,  and 
he  turned  away  his  face,  content. 

'Twas  but  a  little  after  he  called  me  again. 

"  Boy,  give  me  your  hand.  Say  a  prayer  for  me, 
won't  you?  Maybe  it'll  help  some,  a  prayer  for  a 
poor  old  sinner  that's  backslid.  I  can  never  pray 
again." 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  459 

"Yes,   try  to  pray,  Jim,   try.     Come  on;  say  it 

after  me:  '  Our  Father '  " 

"  '  Our  Father '  " 

"  '  Which  art  in  Heaven '  " 


Which  art  in 
His  head  fell  forward.     "  Bless  you,  my  boy.    Fa- 
ther, forgive,  forgive " 

He  sank  back  very  quietly. 
He  was  dead. 

^  SjC  Sjh  *|C  5(C  5|C 

Next  morning  the  Halfbreed  caught  a  minnow. 
We  divided  it  into  three  and  ate  it  raw.  Later  on 
he  found  some  water-lice  under  a  stone.  We  tried  to 
cook  them,  but  they  did  not  help  us  much.  Then, 
as  night  fell  once  more,  a  thought  came  into  our 
minds  and  stuck  there.  It  was  a  hidden  thought, 
and  yet  it  grew  and  grew.  As  we  sat  round  in  a 
circle  we  looked  into  each  other's  faces,  and  there 
we  read  the  same  revolting  thought.  Yet  did  it 
not  seem  so  revolting  after  all.  It  was  as  if  the 
spirit  of  the  dead  man  was  urging  us  to  this  thing, 
so  insistent  did  the  thought  become.  It  was  our  only 
hope  of  life.  It  meant  strength  again,  strength  and 
energy  to  make  a  raft  and  float  us  down  the  river. 
Oh,  if  only — but,  no!  We  could  not  do  it.  Bet- 
ter, a  hundred  times  better,  die. 

Yet  life  was  sweet,  and  for  twenty-three  days  we 
had  starved.  Here  was  a  chance  to  live,  with  the 
dead  man  whispering  in  our  ears  to  do  it.  You  who 
have  never  starved  a  day  in  your  lives,  would  you 
blame  us?    Life  Is  sweet  to  you,  too.     What  would 


46o  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

you  have  done?  The  dead  man  was  urging  us,  and 
life  was  sweet. 

But  we  struggled,  God  knows  we  struggled.  We 
did  not  give  in  without  agony.  In  our  hopeless, 
staring  eyes  there  was  the  anguish  of  the  great  temp- 
tation. We  looked  in  each  other's  death's-head 
faces.  We  clasped  skeleton  hands  round  our  rickety 
knees,  and  swayed  as  we  tried  to  sit  upright.  Ver- 
min crawled  over  us  in  our  weakness.  We  were 
half-crazy,  and  muttered  in  our  beards. 

It  was  the  Halfbreed  who  spoke,  and  his  voice 
was  just  a  whisper: 

"  It's  our  only  chance,  boys,  and  we've  promised 
him.  God  forgive  me,  but  I've  a  wife  and  children, 
and  I'm  a-goin'  to  do  it." 

He  was  too  weak  to  rise,  and  with  his  knife  In  his 
mouth  he  crawled  to  the  body. 

It  was  ready,  but  we  had  not  eaten.  We  waited 
and  waited,  hoping  against  hope.  Then,  as  we 
waited,  God  was  merciful  to  us.  He  saved  us  from 
this  thing. 

"  Say,  I  guess  I've  got  a  pipe-dream,  but  I  think 
I  see  two  men  coming  downstream  on  a  raft." 

"No,  it's  no  dream,"  I  said;  "two  men." 

"Shout  to  them;  I  can't,"  said  the  Prodigal. 

I  tried  to  shout,  but  my  voice  came  as  a  whisper. 
The  Halfbreed,  too,  tried  to  shout.  There  was 
scarcely  any  sound  to  it.  The  men  did  not  see  us 
as  we  lay  on  that  shingly  bar.  Faster  and  faster 
they  came.     In  hopeless,  helpless  woe  we  watched 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  461 

them.  We  could  do  nothing.  In  a  few  moments 
they  would  be  past.  With  eyes  of  terror  we  fol- 
lowed them,  tried  to  make  signals  to  them.  O  God, 
help  us ! 

Suddenly  they  caught  sight  of  that  crazy  boat  of 
ours  made  of  canvas  and  willows.  They  poled  the 
raft  in  close,  then  one  of  them  saw  those  three  strange 
things  writhing  impotently  on  the  sand.  They  were 
skeletons,  they  were  in  rags,  they  were  covered  with 
vermin. — *      *      *      * 

We  were  saved;  thank  God,  we  were  saved! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

*'  Berna,  we  must  get  married." 

"  Yes,  dearest,  whenever  you  wish." 

"  Well,  to-morrow." 

She  smiled  radiantly;  then  her  face  grew  very 
serious. 

"  What  will  I  wear?  "  she  asked  plaintively. 

"  Wear?  Oh,  anything.  That  white  dress  you've 
got  on — I  never  saw  you  looking  so  sweet.  You 
mind  me  of  a  picture  I  know  of  Saint  CeciHa,  the 
same  delicacy  of  feature,  the  same  pure  colouring, 
the  same  grace  of  expression," 

"Foolish  one!"  she  chided;  but  her  voice  was 
deliciously  tender,  and  her  eyes  were  love-lit.  And 
indeed,  as  she  stood  by  the  window  holding  her  em- 
broidery to  the  failing  light,  you  scarce  could  have 
imagined  a  girl  more  gracefully  sweet.  In  a  fine 
mood  of  idealising,  my  eyes  rested  on  her. 

"  Yes,  fairy  girl,  that  briar  rose  you  are  doing  in 
the  centre  of  yourJittle  canvas  hoop  is  not  more  deli- 
cate in  the  tinting  than  are  your  cheeks;  your  hands 
that  ply  the  needle  so  daintily  are  whiter  than  the 
May  blossoms  on  its  border;  those  coils  of  shining 
hair  that  crown  your  head  would  shame  the  silk 
you  use  for  softness." 

"  Don't,"  she  sighed;  "  you  spoil  me." 

"  Oh  no,  it's  true,  true.     Sometimes  I  wish  you 

462 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  463 

were  not  so  lovely.  It  makes  me  care  so  much  for 
you  that — it  hurts.  Sometimes  I  wish  you  were 
plain,  then  I  would  feel  more  sure  of  you.  Some- 
times I  fear,  fear  some  one  will  steal  you  away 
from  me." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried;  "no  one  ever  will.  There 
will  never  be  any  one  but  you." 

She  came  over  to  me,  and  knelt  by  my  chair,  put- 
ting her  arms  around  me  prettily.  The  pure,  sweet 
face  looked  up  into  mine. 

"We  have  been  happy  here,  haven't  we,  boy?" 
she  asked. 

"  Exquisitely  happy.  Yet  I  have  always  been 
afraid." 

"Of  what,  dearest?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Somehow  it  seems  too  good  to 
last." 

"  Well,  to-morrow  we'll  be  married." 

"  Yes,  we  should  have  done  that  a  year  ago.  It's 
all  been  a  mistake.  It  didn't  matter  at  first;  no- 
body noticed,  nobody  cared.  But  now  it's  different. 
I  can  see  it  by  the  way  the  wives  of  the  men  look 
at  us.  I  wonder  do  women  resent  the  fact  that 
virtue  is  only  its  own  reward — they  are  so  down  on 
those  who  stray.  Well,  we  don't  care  anyway. 
We'll  marry  and  live  our  lives.  But  there  are  other 
reasons." 

"Yes?" 

"  Yes.  Garry  talks  of  coming  out.  You  wouldn't 
like  him  to  find  us  living  like  this — without  benefit 
of  the  clergy?  " 


464  THE   TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Not  for  the  world !  "  she  cried,  In  alarm. 

"  Well,  he  won't.  Garry's  old-fashioned  and  ter- 
ribly conventional,  but  you'll  take  to  him  at  once. 
There's  a  wonderful  charm  about  him.  He's  so 
good-looking,  yet  so  clever.  I  think  he  could  win 
any  woman  if  he  tried,  only  he's  too  upright  and 
sincere." 

"  What  will  he  think  of  me,  I  wonder,  poor,  ig- 
norant me?  I  believe  I'm  afraid  of  him.  I  wish 
he'd  stay  away  and  leave  us  alone.  Yet  for  your 
sake,  dear,  I  do  wish  him  to  think  well  of  me." 

"  Don't  fear,  Berna.  He'll  be  proud  of  you.  But 
there's  a  second  reason." 

"What?" 

I  drew  her  up  beside  me  on  the  great  Morris- 
chair. 

"  Oh,  my  beloved !  perhaps  we'll  not  always  be 
alone  as  we  are  now.  Perhaps,  perhaps  some  day 
there  will  be  others — little  ones — for  their  sakes." 

She  did  not  speak.  I  could  feel  her  nestle  closer 
to  me.  Her  cheek  was  pressed  to  mine;  her  hair 
brushed  my  brow  and  her  lips  were  like  rose-petals 
on  my  own.  So  we  sat  there  in  the  big,  deep  chair, 
in  the  glow  of  the  open  fire,  silent,  dreaming,  and 
I  saw  on  her  lashes  the  glimmer  of  a  glorious  tear. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  beloved?  " 

"  Because  I'm  so  happy.  I  never  thought  I  could 
be  so  happy.  I  want  it  to  last  forever.  I  never  want 
to  leave  this  little  cabin  of  ours.  It  will  always  be 
home  to  me.  I  love  it;  oh,  how  I  love  it! — every 
stick  and  stone  of  it!     This  dear  little  room — there 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  465 

will  never  be  another  like  It  In  the  world.  Some 
day  we  may  have  a  fine  home,  but  I  think  I'll  always 
leave  some  of  my  heart  here  in  the  little  cabin." 

I  kissed  away  her  tears.  Foolish  tears !  I  blessed 
her  for  them.  I  held  her  closer  to  me.  I  was  won- 
drous happy.  No  longer  did  the  shadow  of  the  past 
hang  over  us.  Even  as  children  forget,  were  we 
forgetting.  Outside  the  winter's  day  was  waning 
fast.  The  ruddy  firelight  danced  around  us.  It 
flickered  on  the  walls,  the  open  piano,  the  glass  front 
of  the  bookcase.  It  lit  up  the  Indian  corner,  the 
lounge  with  Its  cushions  and  brass  reading-lamp,  the 
rack  of  music,  the  pictures,  the  lace  curtains,  the 
gleaming  little  bit  of  embroidery.  Yes,  to  me,  too, 
these  things  were  wistfully  precious,  for  it  seemed 
as  If  part  of  her  had  passed  Into  them.  It  would 
have  been  like  tearing  out  my  heart-strings  to  part 
with  the  smallest  of  them. 

"  Husband,  I'm  so  happy,"  she  sighed. 

"  Wife,  dear,  dear  wife,  I  too." 

There  was  no  need  for  words.  Our  lips  met  in 
passionate  kisses,  but  the  next  moment  we  started 
apart.  Some  one  was  coming  up  the  garden  path — 
a  tall  figure  of  a  man.  I  started  as  If  I  had  seen  a 
ghost.     Could  it  be? — then  I  rushed  to  the  door. 

There  on  the  porch  stood  Garry. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

As  he  stood  before  me  once  again  It  seemed  as  if 
the  years  had  rolled  away,  and  we  were  boys  to- 
gether. A  spate  of  tender  memories  came  over  me, 
memories  of  the  days  of  dreams  and  high  resolves, 
when  life  rang  true,  when  men  were  brave  and 
women  pure.  Once  more  I  stood  upon  that  rock- 
envisaged  coast,  while  below  me  the  yeasty  sea 
charged  with  a  roar  the  echoing  caves.  The  gulls 
were  glinting  in  the  sunshine,  and  by  their  lit- 
tle brown-thatched  homes  the  fishermen  were  spread- 
ing out  their  nets.  High  on  the  hillside  in  her  gar- 
den I  could  see  my  mother  idling  among  her  flowers. 
It  all  came  back  to  me,  that  sunny  shore,  the  white- 
washed cottages,  the  old  grey  house  among  the 
birches,  the  lift  of  sheep-starred  pasture,  and  above 
it  the  glooming  dark  of  the  heather  hills. 

And  it  was  but  three  years  ago.  How  life  had 
changed!  A  thousand  things  had  happened.  For- 
tune had  come  to  me,  love  had  come  to  me.  I  had 
lived,  I  had  learned.  I  was  no  longer  a  callow,  un- 
couth lad.  Yet,  alas!  I  no  longer  looked  future- 
wards  with  joy;  the  savour  of  life  was  no  more 
sweet.  It  was  another  "  me  "  I  saw  in  my  mirror 
that  day,  a  "  me  "  with  a  face  sorely  lined,  with  hair 
grey-flecked,  with  eyes  sad  and  bitter.  Litde  wonder 
Garry,  as  he  stood  there,  stared  at  me  so  sorrowfully. 

466 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  467 

"How  you've  changed,  lad!"  said  he  at  last. 

*'  Have  I,  Garry?    You're  just  about  the  same." 

But  indeed  he,  too,  had  changed,  had  grown 
finer  than  my  fondest  thoughts  of  him.  He  seemed 
to  bring  into  the  room  the  clean,  sweet  breath  of 
Glengyle,  and  I  looked  at  him  with  admiration  in  my 
eyes.  Coming  out  of  the  cold,  his  colour  was  dazz- 
ling as  that  of  a  woman;  his  deep  blue  eyes  sparkled; 
his  fair  silky  hair,  from  the  pressure  of  his  cap,  was 
moulded  to  the  shape  of  his  fine  head.  Oh,  he  was 
handsome,  this  brother  of  mine,  and  I  was  proud, 
proud  of  him ! 

"  By  all  that's  wonderful,  what  brought  you 
here?" 

His  teeth  flashed  in  that  clever,  confident  smile. 

"  The  stage.  I  just  arrived  a  few  minutes  ago, 
and  hurried  here  at  once.  Aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"  Glad?  Yes,  indeed!  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad. 
But  it's  a  shock  to  me  your  coming  so  suddenly.  You 
might  have  let  me  know." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  sudden  resolve;  I  should  have  wired 
you.  However,  I  thought  I  would  give  you  a  sur- 
prise.    How  are  you,  old  man?" 

"  Me— oh,  I'm  all  right,  thanks." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  lad?  You 
look  ten  years  older.  You  look  older  than  your  big 
brother  now." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay.     It's  the  life,  it's  the  land.     A 
hard  life  and  a  hard  land." 
Why  don't  you  go  out?" 


u 


468  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  I  keep  on  planning 
to  go  out  and  then  something  turns  up,  and  I  put  It 
off  a  little  longer.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go,  but  I'm 
tied  up  with  mining  Interests.  My  partner  Is  away 
In  the  East,  and  I  promised  to  stay  In  and  look  after 
things.     I'm  making  money,  you  see." 

"  Not  sacrificing  your  youth  and  health  for  that, 
are  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  puzzled  look  In  his  frank  face,  and 
for  my  part  I  was  strangely  ill  at  ease.  With  all 
my  joy  at  his  coming,  there  was  a  sense  of  anxiety, 
even  of  fear.  I  had  not  wanted  him  to  come  just 
then,  to  see  me  there.  I  was  not  ready  for  him.  I 
had  planned  otherwise. 

He  was  fixing  me  with  a  clear,  penetrating  look. 
For  a  moment  his  eyes  seemed  to  bore  Into  me,  then 
like  a  flash  the  charm  came  back  into  his  face.  He 
laughed  that  ringing  laugh  of  his. 

"  Well,  I  was  tired  of  roaming  round  the  old 
place.  Things  are  in  good  order  now.  I've  saved  a 
little  money  and  I  thought  I  could  afford  to  travel 
a  little,  so  I  came  up  to  see  my  wandering  brother, 
and  his  wonderful  North." 

His  gaze  roved  round  the  room.  Suddenly  it 
fell  on  the  piece  of  embroidery.  He  started  slightly 
and  I  saw  his  eyes  narrow,  his  mouth  set.  His  glance 
shifted  to  the  piano  with  its  litter  of  music.  He 
looked  at  me  again,  In  an  odd,  bewildered  way.  He 
went  on  speaking,  but  there  was  a  queer  constraint 
in  his  manner. 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  469 

"  I'm  going  to  stay  here  for  a  month,  and  then  I 
want  you  to  come  back  with  me.  Come  back  home 
and  get  some  of  the  old  colour  into  your  cheeks.  The 
country  doesn't  agree  with  you,  but  we'll  have  you 
all  right  pretty  soon.  We'll  have  you  flogging  the 
trout  pools  and  tramping  over  the  heather  with  a 
gun.  You  remember  how — whir-r-r — the  black-cock 
used  to  rise  up  right  at  one's  very  feet.  They've  been 
very  plentiful  the  last  two  years.  Oh,  we'll  have  the 
good  old  times  over  again !  You'll  see,  we'll  soon 
put  you  right." 

"  It's  good  of  you,  Garry,  to  think  so  much  of  me; 
but  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  come  just  yet. 
I've  got  so  much  to  do.  I've  got  thirty  men  working 
for  me.     I've  just  got  to  stay." 

He  sighed. 

"  Well,  if  you  stay  I'll  stay,  too.  I  don't  like 
the  way  you're  looking.  You're  working  too  hard. 
Perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

"All  right;  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  rather  awful, 
though.  No  one  lives  up  here  in  winter  if  they  pos- 
sibly can  avoid  it.  But  for  a  time  it  will  interest 
you." 

"  I  think  it  will."  And  again  his  eyes  stared 
fixedly  at  that  piece  of  embroidery  on  its  little  hoop. 

"  I'm  terribly  glad  to  see  you  anyway,  Garry. 
There's  no  use  talking,  words  can't  express  things 
like  that  between  us  two.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
I'm  glad  to  see  you,  and  I'll  do  my  best  to  make  your 
visit  a  happy  one." 

Between  the  curtains  that  hung  over  the  bedroom 


470  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

door  I  could  see  Berna  standing  motionless.  I  won- 
dered if  he  could  see  her  too.  His  eyes  followed 
mine.  They  rested  on  the  curtains  and  the  strong, 
stern  look  came  into  his  face.  Yet  again  he  ban- 
ished it  with  a  sunny  smile. 

"  Mother's  one  regret  was  that  you  were  not  with 
her  when  she  died.  Do  you  know,  old  man,  I  think 
she  was  always  fonder  of  you  than  of  me  ?  You  were 
the  sentimental  one  of  the  family,  and  Mother  was 
always  a  gentle  dreamer.  I  took  more  after  Dad; 
dry  and  practical,  you  know.  Well,  Mother  used  to 
worry  a  good  deal  about  you.  She  missed  you  dread- 
fully, and  before  she  died  she  made  me  promise  I'd 
always  stand  by  you,  and  look  after  you  if  anything 
happened." 

"  There's  not  much  need  of  that,  Garry.  But 
thanks  all  the  same,  old  man.  I've  seen  a  lot  in  the 
past  few  years.  I  know  something  of  the  world  now. 
I've  changed.  I'm  sort  of  disillusioned.  I  seem  to 
have  lost  my  zest  for  things — but  I  know  how  to 
handle  men,  how  to  fight  and  how  to  win." 

"  It's  not  that,  lad.  You  know  that  to  win  is 
often  to  lose.  You  were  never  made  for  the  fight, 
my  brother.  It's  all  been  a  mistake.  You're  too 
sensitive,  too  high-strung  for  a  fighting-man.  You 
have  too  much  sentiment  in  you.  Your  spirit 
urged  you  to  fields  of  conquest  and  romance,  yet 
by  nature  you  were  designed  for  the  gentler  life. 
If  you  could  have  curbed  your  impulse  and  only 
dreamed  your  adventures,  you  would  have  been  the 
happier.      Imagination's  been   a   curse   to  you,   boy. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  471 

You've  tortured  yourself  all  these  years,  and  now 
you're  paying  the  penalty." 

"What  penalty?" 

"  You've  lost  your  splendid  capacity  for  happi- 
ness; your  health's  undermined;  your  faith  in  man- 
kind is  destroyed.  Is  it  worth  while?  You've 
plunged  into  the  fight  and  you've  won.  What  does 
your  victory  mean?  Can  it  compare  with  what 
you've  lost?  Here,  I  haven't  a  third  of  what  you 
have,  and  yet  I'm  magnificently  happy.  I  don't  envy 
you.  I  am  going  to  enjoy  every  moment  of  my  life. 
Oh,  my  brother,  you've  been  making  a  sad  mistake, 
but  it's  not  too  late !  You're  young,  young.  It's  not 
too  late." 

Then  I  saw  that  his  words  were  true.  I  saw  that 
I  had  neVer  been  meant  for  the  fierce  battle  of  ex- 
istence. Like  those  high-strung  horses  that  were  the 
first  to  break  their  hearts  on  the  trail,  I  was  un- 
suited  for  it  all.  Far  better  would  I  have  been  liv- 
ing the  sweet,  simple  life  of  my  forefathers.  My 
spirit  had  upheld  me,  but  now  I  knew  there  was  a 
poison  in  my  veins,  that  I  was  a  sick  man,  that  I  had 
played  the  game  and  won — at  too  great  a  cost.  I 
was  like  a  sprinter  that  breasts  the  tape,  only  to  be 
carried  fainting  from  the  field.  Alas!  I  had  gained 
success  only  to  find  it  was  another  name  for  failure. 

"  Now,"  said  Garry,  "  you  must  come  home.  Back 
there  on  the  countryside  we  can  find  you  a  sweet  girl 
to  marry.  You  will  love  her,  have  children  and  for- 
get all  this.     Come." 

I  rose.    I  could  no  longer  put  it  off. 


472  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  Excuse  me  one  moment,"  I  said.  I  parted  the 
curtains  and  entered  the  bedroom. 

She  was  standing  there,  white  to  the  lips  and  trem- 
bling.   She  looked  at  me  piteously. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  faltered. 

"  Be  brave,  little  girl,"  I  whispered,  leading  her 
forward.     Then  I  threw  aside  the  curtain. 

"  Garry,"  I  said,  "  this  is — this  is  Berna." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Garry,  Berna — there  they  stood,  face  to  face  at 
last.  Long  ago  I  had  visioned  this  meeting,  planned 
for,  yet  dreaded  it,  and  now  with  utter  suddenness 
it  had  come. 

The  girl  had  recovered  her  calm,  and  I  must  say 
she  bore  herself  well.  In  her  clinging  dress  of  sim- 
ple white  her  figure  was  as  slimly  graceful  as  that 
of  a  wood-nymph,  her  head  poised  as  sweetly  as 
a  lily  on  its  stem.  The  fair  hair  rippled  away  in 
graceful  lines  from  the  fine  brow,  and  as  she  gazed 
at  my  brother  there  was  a  proud,  high  look  in  her 
eyes. 

And  Garry — his  smile  had  vanished.  His  face 
was  cold  and  stern.  There  was  a  stormy  antagonism 
in  his  bearing.  No  doubt  he  saw  in  her  a  creature 
who  was  preying  on  me,  an  influence  for  evil,  an 
overwhelming  indictment  against  me  of  sin  and  guilt. 
All  this  I  read  in  his  eyes;  then  Berna  advanced  to 
him  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do?  I've  heard  so  much  about  you 
I  feel  as  if  I'd  known  you  long  ago." 

She  was  so  winning,  I  could  see  he  was  quite  taken 
aback.  He  took  the  little  white  hand  and  looked 
down  from  his  splendid  height  to  the  sweet  eyes 
that  gazed  into  his.  He  bowed  with  icy  polite- 
ness. 

473 


474  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  I  feel  flattered,  I  assure  you,  that  my  brother 
should  have  mentioned  me  to  you." 

Here  he  shot  a  dark  look  at  me. 

"  Sit  down  again,  Garry,"  I  said.  "  Berna  and 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  complied,  but  with  an  ill  grace.  We  all  three 
'  sat  down  and  a  grave  constraint  was  upon  us.  Berna 
broke  the  silence. 

"  What  sort  of  a  trip  have  you  had?  " 

He  looked  at  her  keenly.  He  saw  a  simple  girl, 
shy  and  sweet,  gazing  at  him  with  a  flattering 
interest. 

"  Oh,  not  so  bad.  Travelling  sixty  miles  a  day  on 
a  jolting  stage  gets  monotonous,  though.  The  road- 
houses  were  pretty  decent  as  a  rule,  but  some  were 
vile.     However,    it's    all    new    and    interesting    to 


me." 


"  You  will  stay  with  us  for  a  time,  won't 
you?" 

He  favoured  me  with  another  grim  look. 

"  Well,  that  all  depends — I  haven't  quite  decided 
yet.  I  want  to  take  Athol  here  home  with 
me." 

"  Home "    There  was  a  pathetic  catch  in  her 

voice.  Her  eyes  went  round  the  little  room  that 
meant  "  home  "  to  her. 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  nice,"  she  faltered.  Then,  with 
a  brave  effort,  she  broke  into  a  lively  conversation 
about  the  North.  As  she  talked  an  inspiration 
seemed  to  come  to  her.  A  light  beaconed  in  her 
eyes.    Her  face,  fine  as  a  cameo,  became  eager,  rapt. 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  475 

She  was  telling  him  of  the  magical  summers,  of  the 
midnight  sunsets,  of  the  glorious  largess  of  the 
flowers,  of  the  things  that  meant  so  much  to  her. 
She  was  wonderfully  animated.  As  I  watched  her 
I  thought  what  a  perfect  little  lady  she  was;  and  I 
felt  proud  of  her. 

He  was  listening  carefully,  with  evident  interest. 
Gradually  his  look  of  stern  antagonism  had  given 
way  to  one  of  attention.  Yet  I  could  see  he  was  not 
listening  so  much  to  her  as  he  was  studying  her.  His 
intent  gaze  never  moved  from  her  face. 

Then  I  talked  a  while.  The  darkness  had  de- 
scended upon  us,  but  the  embers  in  the  open  fire- 
place lighted  the  room  with  a  rosy  glow.  I  could 
not  see  his  eyes  now,  but  I  knew  he  was  still  watch- 
ing us  keenly.  He  merely  answered  "yes"  and 
"  no "  to  our  questions,  and  his  voice  was  very 
grave.     Then,  after  a  little,  he  rose  to  go. 

"  I'll  return  to  the  hotel  with  you,"  I  said. 

Berna  gave  us  a  pathetically  anxious  little  look. 
There  was  a  red  spot  on  each  cheek  and  her  eyes 
were  bright.     I  could  see  she  wanted  to  cry. 

"  I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  dear,"  I  said,  while 
Garry  gravely  shook  hands  with  her. 

We  did  not  speak  on  the  way  to  his  room.  When 
we  reached  it  he  switched  on  the  light  and  turned 
to  me. 

"  Brother,  who's  this  girl?  " 

"  She's — she's  my  housekeeper.  That's  all  I  can 
say  at  present,  Garry." 

"Married?" 


476  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  No." 

"Good  God!" 

Stormily  he  paced  the  floor,  while  I  watched  him 
with  a  great  calm.     At  last  he  spoke. 

"  Tell  me  about  her." 

"  Sit  down,  Garry;  light  a  cigar.  We  may  as  well 
talk  this  thing  over  quietly." 

"All  right.     Who  is  she?" 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  lighting  my  cigar,  "  is  a  Jewess. 
She  was  born  of  an  unwed  mother,  and  reared  in  the 
midst  of  misery  and  corruption." 

He  stared  at  me.  His  mouth  hardened;  his  brow 
contracted. 

"  But,"  I  went  on,  "  I  want  to  say  this.  You  re- 
member, Garry,  Mother  used  to  tell  us  of  our  sister 
who  died  when  she  was  a  baby.  I  often  used  to 
dream  of  my  dead  sister,  and  in  my  old,  imaginative 
days  I  used  to  think  she  had  never  died  at  all,  but 
she  had  grown  up  and  was  with  us.  How  we  would 
have  loved  her,  would  we  not,  Garry?  Well,  I  tell 
you  this — if  our  sister  had  grown  up  she  could  have 
been  no  sweeter,  purer,  gentler  than  this  girl  of 
mine,  this  Berna." 

He  smiled  ironically. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  if  she  is  so  wonderful,  why, 
in  the  name  of  Heaven,  haven't  you  married 
her?" 

His  manner  towards  her  in  the  early  part  of  the 
interview  had  hurt  me,  had  roused  in  me  a  certain 
perversity.     I  determined  to  stand  by  my  guns. 

"  Marriage,"  said  I,  "  isn't  everything;  often  isn't 


"Garry,"  I  said,  "this  is — this  is  Bema" 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  477 

anything.  Love  is,  and  always  will  be,  the  great 
reality.  It  existed  long  before  marriage  was  ever 
thought  of.  Marriage  is  a  good  thing.  It  protects 
the  wife  and  the  children.  As  a  rule,  it  enforces 
constancy.  But  there's  a  higher  ideal  of  human 
companionship  that  is  based  on  love  alone,  love  so 
perfect,  so  absolute  that  legal  bondage  insults  it; 
love  that  is  its  own  justification.  Such  a  love  is 
ours." 

The  ironical  look,  deepened  to  a  sneer. 

"And  look  you  here,  Garry,"  I  went  on;  "I  am 
living  in  Dawson  in  what  you  would  call  '  shame.' 
Well,  let  me  tell  you,  there's  not  ninety-nine  in  a 
hundred  legally  married  couples  that  have  formed 
such  a  sweet,  love-sanctified  union  as  we  have.  That 
girl  is  purest  gold,  a  pearl  of  untold  price.  There 
has  never  been  a  jar  in  the  harmony  of  our  lives. 
We  love  each  other  absolutely.  We  trust  and  be- 
lieve in  each  other.  We  would  make  any  sacrifice 
for  each  other.  And,  I  say  it  again,  our  marriage 
is  tenfold  holier  than  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
of  those  performed  with  all  the  pomp  of  surplice 
and  sacristy." 

"Oh,  man!  man!"  he  said  crushingly,  "what's 
got  into  you?  What  nonsense,  what  clap-trap  is  this? 
I  tell  you  that  the  old  way,  the  way  that  has  stood 
for  generations,  is  the  best,  and  it's  a  sorry  day  I 
find  a  brother  of  mine  talking  such  nonsense.  I'm 
almost  glad  Mother's  dead.  It  would  surely  have 
broken  her  heart  to  know  that  her  son  was  living 
in  sin  and  shame,  living  with  a " 


478  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

"  Easy  now,  Garry,"  I  cautioned  him.  We  faced 
each  other  with  the  table  between  us. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  my  say  out.  I've  come  all 
this  way  to  say  it,  and  you've  got  to  hear  me.  You're 
my  brother.  God  knows  I  love  you.  I  promised 
I'd  look  after  you,  and  now  I'm  going  to  save  you 
if  I  can." 

"  Garry,"  I  broke  in,  "  I'm  younger  than  you,  and 
I  respect  you;  but  in  the  last  few  years  I've  grown 
to  see  things  different  from  the  way  we  were  taught; 
broader,  clearer,  saner,  somehow.  We  can't  always 
follow  in  the  narrow  path  of  our  forefathers.  We 
must  think  and  act  for  ourselves  in  these  days.  I 
see  no  sin  and  shame  in  what  I'm  doing.  We  love 
each  other — that  is  our  vindication.  It's  a  pure, 
white  light  that  dims  all  else.  If  you  had  seen  and 
striven  and  suffered  as  I  have  done,  you  might  think 
as  I  do.  But  you've  got  your  smug  old-fashioned 
notions.  You  gaze  at  the  trees  so  hard  you  can't 
see  the  forest.  Yours  is  an  ideal,  too;  but  mine  is  a 
purer,  more  exalted  one," 

"Balderdash!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  you  anger  me! 
Look  here,  Athol,  I  came  all  this  way  to  see  you 
about  this  matter.  It's  a  long  way  to  come,  but  I 
knew  my  brother  was  needing  me  and  I'd  have  gone 
round  the  world  for  you.  You  never  told  me  any- 
thing of  this  girl  in  your  letters.  You  were  ashamed." 

"  I  knew  I  could  never  make  you  understand." 

"  You  might  have  tried.  I'm  not  so  dense  in  the 
understanding.  No,  you  would  not  tell  me,  and  I've 
had  letters,  warning  letters.      It  was  left  to  other 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  479 

people  to  tell  me  how  you  drank  and  gambled  and 
squandered  your  money;  how  you  were  like  to  a 
madman.  They  told  me  you  had  settled  down  to 
live  with  one  of  the  creatures,  a  woman  who  had 
made  her  living  in  the  dance-halls,  and  every  one 
knows  no  woman  ever  did  that  and  remained  straight. 
They  warned  me  of  the  character  of  this  girl,  of  your 
infatuation,  of  your  callousness  to  public  opinion. 
They  told  me  how  barefaced,  how  shameless  you 
were.  They  begged  me  to  try  and  save  you.  I 
would  not  believe  it,  but  now  I've  come  to  see  for 
myself,   and  it's  all  true,  it's  all  true." 

He  bowed  his  head  in  emotion. 

"  Oh,  she's  good !  "  I  cried.  "  If  you  knew  her 
you  would  think  so,  too.  You,  too,  would  love 
her." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  Boy,  I  must  save  you.  I  must, 
for  the  honour  of  the  old  name  that's  never  been 
tarnished.     I  must  make  you  come  home  with  me." 

He  put  both  hands  on  my  shoulders,  looking  com- 
mandingly  into  my  face. 

"No,  no,"  I  said,  "I'll  never  leave  her." 

"  It  will  be  all  right.  We  can  pay  her.  It  can  be 
arranged.  Think  of  the  honour  of  the  old  name, 
lad." 

I  shook  him  off.  "  Pay!  " — I  laughed  ironically. 
"  Pay  "  in  connection  with  the  name  of  Berna — again 
I  laughed. 

"  She's  good,"  I  said  once  again.  "  Wait  a  little 
till  you  know  her.  Don't  judge  her  yet.  Wait  a 
little." 


48o  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

He  saw  it  was  of  no  use  to  waste  further  words 
on  me.    He  sighed. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  *'  have  it  your  own  way. 
I  think  she's  ruining  you.  She's  dragging  you  down, 
sapping  your  moral  principles,  lowering  your  stand- 
ard of  pure  living.  She  must  be  bad,  bad,  or  she 
wouldn't  live  with  you  like  that.  But  have  it  your 
own  way,  boy;  I'll  wait  and  see." 


CHAPTER  XX 

In  the  crystalline  days  that  followed  I  did  much 
to  bring  about  a  friendship  between  Garry  and  Berna. 
At  first  I  had  difficulty  in  dragging  him  to  the  house, 
but  in  a  little  while  he  came  quite  willingly.  The 
girl,  too,  aided  me  greatly.  In  her  sweet,  shy  way 
she  did  her  best  to  win  his  regard,  so  that  as  the  win- 
ter advanced  a  great  change  came  over  him.  He 
threw  off  that  stern  manner  of  his  as  an  actor  throws 
off  a  part,  and  once  again  he  was  the  dear  old  Garry 
I  knew  and  loved. 

His  sunny  charm  returned,  and  with  it  his  brilliant 
smile,  his  warm,  endearing  frankness.  He  was  now 
twenty-eight,  and  if  there  was  a  handsomer  man  in 
the  Northland  I  had  yet  to  see  him.  I  often  en- 
vied him  for  his  fine  figure  and  his  clean,  vivid  colour. 
It  was  a  wonderfully  expressive  face  that  looked 
at  you,  firm  and  manly,  and,  above  all,  clever.  You 
found  a  pleasure  in  the  resonant  sweetness  of  his 
voice.  You  were  drawn  irresistibly  to  the  man,  even 
as  you  would  have  been  drawn  to  a  beautiful  woman. 
He  was  winning,  lovable,  yet  back  of  all  his  charm 
there  was  that  great  quality  of  strength,  of  austere 
purpose. 

He  made  a  hit  with  every  one,  and  I  verily  be- 
lieve that  half  the  women  in  the  town  were  in  love 
with  him.  However,  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  it, 
and  he  stalked  through  the  streets  with  the  gait  of 

481 


482  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

a  young  god.  I  knew  there  were  some  who  for  a 
smile  would  have  followed  him  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  but  Garry  was  always  a  man's  man.  Never 
do  I  remember  the  time  when  he  took  an  interest 
in  a  woman.  I  often  thought,  if  women  could  have 
the  man  of  their  choice,  a  few  handsome  ones  like 
Garry  would  monopolise  them,  while  we  common 
mortals  would  go  wifeless.  Sometimes  It  has  seemed 
to  me  that  love  is  but  a  second-hand  article,  and  that 
our  matings  are  at  best  only  makeshifts. 

I  must  say  I  tried  very  hard  to  reconcile  those 
two.  I  threw  them  together  on  every  opportunity, 
for  I  wanted  him  to  understand  and  to  love  her.  I 
felt  he  had  but  to  know  her  to  appreciate  her  at  her 
true  value,  and,  although  he  spoke  no  word  to  me,  I 
was  soon  conscious  of  a  vast  change  in  him.  Short 
of  brotherly  regard,  he  was  everything  that  could 
be  desired  to  her — cordial,  friendly,  charming.  Once 
1  asked  Berna  what  she  thought  of  him. 

"  I  think  he's  splendid,"  she  said  quietly.  "  He's 
the  handsomest  man  I've  ever  seen,  and  he's  as  nice 
as  he's  good-looking.  In  many  ways  you  remind  me 
of  him — and  yet  there's  a  difference." 

"  I  remind  you  of  him — no,  girl.  I'm  not  worthy 
to  be  his  valet.  He's  as  much  above  me  as  I  am 
above — say  a  siwash.  He  has  all  the  virtues;  I,  all 
the  faults.  Sometimes  I  look  at  him  and  I  see  In 
him  my  ideal  self.  He  is  all  strength,  all  nobility, 
while  I  am  but  a  commonplace  mortal,  full  of  hu- 
man weaknesses.  He  Is  the  self  I  should  have  been 
if  the  worst  had  been  the  best." 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  483 

*'  Hush !  you  are  my  sweetheart,"  she  assured  me 
with  a  caress,  "  and  the  dearest  in  the  world." 

"  By  the  way,  Berna,"  I  said,  "  you  remember 
something  we  talked  about  before  he  came?  Don't 
you  think  that  now ?  " 

"Now ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  All  right."  She  flashed  a  glad,  tender  look  at 
me  and  left  the  room.  That  night  she  was  strangely 
elated. 

Every  evening  Garry  would  drop  in  and  talk  to 
us.  Berna  would  look  at  him  as  he  talked  and  her 
eyes  would  brighten  and  her  cheeks  flush.  On  both 
of  us  he  had  a  strangely  buoyant  effect.  How  happy 
we  could  be,  just  we  three.  It  was  splendid  having 
near  me  the  two  I  loved  best  on  earth. 

That  was  a  memorable  winter,  mild  and  bright 
and  buoyant.  At  last  Spring  came  with  gracious 
days  of  sunshine.  The  sleighing  was  glorious,  but 
I  was  busy,  very  busy,  so  that  I  was  glad  to  send 
Garry  and  Berna  off  together  in  a  smart  cutter,  and 
see  them  come  home  with  their  cheeks  like  roses, 
their  eyes  sparkling  and  laughter  in  their  voices.  I 
never  saw  Berna  looking  so  well  and  happy. 

I  was  head  over  ears  in  work.  In  a  mail  just  ar- 
rived I  had  a  letter  from  the  Prodigal,  and  a  certain 
paragraph  in  it  set  me  pondering.     Here  it  was : 

"  You  must  look  out  for  Locasto.  He  was  in  New  York  a 
week  ago.  He's  down  and  out.  Blood-poisoning  set  in  in 
his  foot  after  he  got  outside,  and  eventually  he  had  to  have 


484  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

• 

it  taken  off.  He's  got  a  false  mit  for  the  one  Mac  sawed  off. 
But  you  should  see  him.  He's  all  shot  to  pieces  with  the 
'hooch.'  It's  a  fright  the  pace  he's  gone.  I  had  an  inter- 
view with  him,  and  he  raved  and  blasphemed  horribly. 
Seemed  to  have  a  terrible  pick  at  you.  Seems  you  have 
copped  out  his  best  girl,  the  only  one  he  ever  cared  a  red 
cent  for.  Said  he  would  get  even  with  you  if  he  swung  for 
it.  I  think  he's  dangerous,  even  a  madman.  He  is  leaving 
for  the  North  now,  so  be  on  your  guard." 

Locasto  coming!  I  had  almost  forgotten  his  ex- 
istence. Well,  I  no  longer  cared  for  him.  I  could 
afford  to  despise  him.  Surely  he  would  never  dare 
to  molest  us.  If  he  did — he  was  a  broken,  discred- 
ited blackguard.     I  could  crush  him. 

Coming  here !  He  must  even  now  be  on  the  way. 
I  had  a  vision  of  him  speeding  along  that  desolate 
trail,  sitting  in  the  sleigh  wrapped  in  furs,  and  brood- 
ing, brooding.  As  day  after  day  the  spell  of  the 
great  and  gloomy  land  grew  on  his  spirit,  I  could  see 
the  sombre  eyes  darken  and  deepen.  I  could  see  him 
in  the  road-house  at  night,  gaunt  and  haggard,  drink- 
ing at  the  bar,  a  desperate,  degraded  cripple.  I  could 
see  him  growing  more  reckless  every  day,  every  hour. 
He  was  coming  back  to  the  scene  of  his  ruined  for- 
tunes, and  God  knows  with  what  wild  schemes  of 
vengeance  his  heart  was  full.  Decidedly  I  must 
beware. 

As  I  sat  there  dreaming,  a  ring  came  to  the 
'phone.     It  was  the  foreman  at  Gold  Hill. 

"The  hoisting  machine  has  broken  down,"  he  told 
me.    "  Can  you  come  out  and  see  what  Is  required?  " 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  485 


(( 


All  right,"  I  replied.     "  I'll  leave  at  once." 

"  Berna,"  I  said,  "  I'll  have  to  go  out  to  the  Forks 
to-night.  I'll  be  back  early  to-morrow.  Get  me  a 
bite  to  eat,  dear,  while  I  go  round  and  order  the 
horse." 

On  my  way  I  met  Garry  and  told  him  I  would  be 
gone  over  night.     "Won't  you  come?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  thanks,  old  man,  I  don't  feel  like  a  night 
drive." 

"  All  right.     Good-bye." 

So  I  hurried  off,  and  soon  after,  with  a  jingle  of 
bells,  I  drove  up  to  my  door.  Berna  had  made  sup- 
per. She  seemed  excited.  Her  eyes  were  starry 
bright,  her  cheeks  burned. 

"Aren't  you  well,  sweetheart?"  I  asked.  "You 
look  feverish." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I'm  well.  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
go  to-night.  Something  tells  me  you  shouldn't. 
Please  don't  go,  dear.     Please,  for  my  sake." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Berna !  You  know  I've  been  away 
before.  Get  one  of  the  neighbour's  wives  to  sleep 
with  you.     Get  in  Mrs.  Brooks." 

"  Oh,  don't  go,  don't  go,  I  beg  you,  dear.  I  don't 
want  you  to.  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid.  Won't  some 
one  else  do?  " 

"  Nonsense,  girl.  You  mustn't  be  so  foolish.  It's 
only  for  a  few  hours.  Here,  I'll  ring  up  Mrs. 
Brooks  and  you  can  ask  her." 

She  sighed.  "  No,  never  mind.  I'll  ring  her  up 
after  you've  gone." 

She  clung  to  me  tightly,  so  that  I  wondered  what 


486  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

had  got  Into  the  girl.    Then  gently  I  kissed  her,  dis- 
engaged her  hands,  and  bade  her  good-night. 

As  I  was  rattling  off  through  the  darkness,  a  boy 
handed  me  a  note.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  thinking 
I  would  read  it  when  I  reached  Ogilvie  Bridge. 
Then  I  whipped  up  the  horse. 

The  night  was  crisp  and  exhilarating.  I  had  one 
of  the  best  trotters  in  the  country,  and  the  sleighing 
was  superb.  As  I  sped  along,  with  a  jingle  of  bells, 
my  spirits  rose.  Things  were  looking  splendid.  The 
mine  was  turning  out  far  better  than  we  had  expected. 
Surely  we  could  sell  out  soon,  and  I  would  have  all 
the  money  I  wanted.  Even  then  the  Prodigal  was 
putting  through  a  deal  In  New  York  that  would  real- 
ise our  fortunes.      My  life-struggle  was  nearly  over. 

Then  again,  I  had  reconciled  Garry  to  Berna. 
When  I  told  him  of  a  certain  secret  I  was  hugging 
to  my  breast  he  would  capitulate  entirely.  How 
happy  we  would  all  be !  I  would  buy  a  small  estate 
near  home,  and  we  would  settle  down.  But  first  we 
would  spend  a  few  years  In  travel.  We  would  see 
the  whole  world.  What  good  times  we  would  have, 
Berna  and  I !  Bless  her !  It  had  all  worked  out 
beautifully. 

Why  was  she  so  frightened,  so  loath  to  let  me 
go?  I  wondered  vaguely  and  flicked  up  the  horse 
so  that  it  plunged  sharply  forward.  The  vast  blue- 
black  sky  was  like  an  inverted  gold-pan  and  the 
stars  were  flake  colours  adhering  to  it.  The  cold 
snapped  at  me  till  my  cheeks  tingled,  and  my  eyes 
felt  as  if  they  could  spark.     Oh,  life  was  sweet! 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  487 

Bother!  In  my  elation  I  had  forgotten  to  get 
off  at  the  Old  Inn  and  read  my  note.  Never  mind, 
I  would  keep  it  till  I  reached  the  Forks. 

As  I  spun  along,  I  thought  of  how  changed  it  all 
was  from  the  Bonanza  I  first  knew.  How  I  remem- 
bered tramping  along  that  hillside  slope,  packing  a 
sack  of  flour  over  a  muddy  trail,  a  poor  miner  in 
muddy  overalls !  Now  I  was  driving  a  smart  horse 
on  a  fine  road.  I  was  an  operator  of  a  first-class 
mine.  I  was  a  man  of  business,  of  experience. 
Higher  and  higher  my  spirits  rose. 

How  fast  the  horse  flew  I  I  would  be  at  the  Forks 
in  no  time.  I  flashed  past  cabin  windows.  I  saw 
the  solitary  oil-lamp  and  the  miner  reading  his  book 
or  filling  his  pipe.  Never  was  there  a  finer,  more 
intelligent  man;  but  his  day  was  passing.  The  whole 
country  was  falling  into  the  hands  of  companies. 
Soon,  thought  I,  one  or  two  big  combines  would  con- 
trol the  whole  wealth  of  that  land.  Already  they 
had  their  eyes  on  it.  The  gold-ships  would  float  and 
roar  where  the  old-time  miner  toiled  with  pick  and 
pan.     Change !     Change ! 

I  almost  fancied  I  could  see  the  monster  dredges 
ploughing  up  the  valley,  where  now  men  panted  at 
the  windlass.  I  could  see  vast  heaps  of  tailings  fill- 
ing the  creek-bed;  I  could  hear  the  crash  of  the  steel 
grizzlies;  I  could  see  the  buckets  scooping  up  the 
pay-dirt.  I  felt  strangely  prophetic.  My  imagina- 
tion ran  riot  in  all  kinds  of  wonders,  great  power 
plants,  quartz  discoveries.     Change!  Change! 

Yes,  the  stamp-mill  would  add  its  thunder  to  the 


488  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

other  voices ;  the  country  would  be  netted  with  wires, 
and  clamorous  for  far  and  wide.  Man  had  sought 
out  this  land  where  Silence  had  reigned  so  long.  He 
had  awakened  the  echoes  with  the  shot  of  his  rifle 
and  the  ring  of  his  axe.  Silence  had  raised  a 
startled  head  and  poised  there,  listening.  Then,  with 
crack  of  pick  and  boom  of  blast,  man  had  hurled  her 
back.  Further  and  further  had  he  driven  her.  With 
his  advancing  horde,  mad  in  their  lust  for  the  loot 
of  the  valley,  he  had  banished  her.  His  engines  had 
frightened  her  with  their  canorous  roar.  His  crash- 
ing giants  had  driven  her  cowering  to  the  inviolate 
fastnesses  of  her  hills.  And  there  she  broods  and 
waits. 

But  Silence  will  return.  To  her  was  given  the  land 
that  she  might  rule  and  have  dominion  over  it  for- 
ever. And  in  a  few  years  the  clamour  will  cease,  the 
din  will  die  away.  In  a  few  years  the  treasure  will 
be  exhausted,  and  the  looters  will  depart.  The  en- 
gines will  lie  in  rust  and  ruin;  the  wind  will  sweep 
through  the  empty  homes;  the  tailing-piles  lie  paUid 
in  the  moon.  Then  the  last  man  will  strike  the  last 
blow,  and  Silence  will  come  again  into  her  own. 

Yea,  Silence  will  come  home  once  more.  Again 
will  she  rule  despotic  over  peak  and  plain.  She  is 
only  waiting,  brooding  in  the  impregnable  desolation 
of  her  hills.  To  her  has  been  given  empery  of  the 
land,  and  hand  in  hand  with  Darkness  will  she 
return. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Ha!  here  I  had  reached  the  Forks  at  last.     As  I 
drew  up  at  the  hotel,  the  clerk  came  out  to  meet  me. 

"  Gent  wants  to  speak  to  you  at  the  'phone,  sir." 

It  was  Murray  of  Dawson,  an  old-timer,  and 
rather  a  friend  of  mine. 

"  Hello !  " 

"Hello!  Say,  Meldrum,  this  is  Murray  speak- 
ing. Say,  just  wanted  to  let  you  know  there's  a  stage 
due  some  time  before  morning.  Locasto's  on  board, 
and  they  say  he's  heeled  for  you.  Thought  I'd  bet- 
ter tell  you  so's  you  can  get  fixed  up  for  him." 

"All  right,"  I  answered.  "Thank  you.  I'll 
turn  and  come  right  back." 

So  I  switched  round  the  horse,  and  once  more  I 
drove  over  the  glistening  road.  No  longer  did  I  plan 
and  exult.  Indeed  a  grim  fear  was  gripping  me. 
Of  a*  sudden  the  shadow  of  Locasto  loomed  up  sin- 
ister and  menacing.  Even  now  he  was  speeding  Daw- 
sonward  with  a  great  hatred  of  me  in  his  heart. 
Well,  I  would  get  back  and  prepare  for  him. 

There  came  to  my  mind  a  comic  perception  of  the 
awkwardness  of  returning  to  one's  own  home  unex- 
pectedly, in  the  dead  of  night.  At  first  I  decided  I 
would  go  to  a  hotel,  then  on  second  thoughts  I  de- 
termined to  try  the  house,  for  I  had  a  desire  to  be 
near  Berna. 

489 


490  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

I  knocked  gently,  then  a  little  louder,  then  at  last 
quite  loudly.  Within  all  was  still,  dark  as  a  sepul- 
chre. Curious !  she  was  such  a  light  sleeper,  too. 
Why  did  she  not  hear  me? 

Once  more  I  decided  to  go  to  the  hotel;  once 
more  that  vague,  indefinite  fear  assailed  me  and 
again  I  knocked.  And  now  my  fear  was  becoming 
a  panic.  I  had  my  latch-key  in  my  pocket,  so  very 
quietly  I  opened  the  door. 

I  was  in  the  front  room,  and  It  was  dark,  very  dark 
and  quiet.     I  could  not  even  hear  her  breathe. 

"  Berna,"  I  whispered. 

No  reply. 

That  dim,  nameless  dread  was  clutching  at  my 
heart,  and  I  groped  overhead  in  the  darkness  for  the 
drop-light.  How  hard  it  was  to  find!  A  dozen 
times  my  hand  circled  in  the  air  before  I  knocked  my 
knuckles  against  it.     I  switched  it  on. 

Instantly  the  cabin  was  flooded  with  hght.  In  the 
dining-room  I  could  see  the  remains  of  our  supper 
lying  untidily.  That  was  not  like  her.  She  had 
a  horror  of  dirty  dishes.  I  passed  into  the  bedroom 
— Ah !  the  bed  had  never  been  slept  on. 

What  a  fool  I  was !  It  flashed  on  me  she  had 
gone  over  to  Mrs.  Brooks'  to  sleep.  She  was  afraid 
of  being  alone.  Poor  little  girl !  How  surprised  she 
would  be  to  see  me  in  the  morning! 

Well,  I  would  go  to  bed.  As  I  was  pulling  off 
my  coat,  I  found  the  note  that  had  been  given  to 
me.  Blaming  myself  for  my  carelessness,  I  pulled 
it  out  of  my  pocket  and  opened  It.     As  I  unfolded 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  491 

the  sheet,  I  noticed  it  was  written  in  what  looked 
like  a  disguised  hand.  Strange !  I  thought.  The 
writing  was  small  and  faint.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light. 

Merciful  God!  What  was  this?  Oh  no,  it  could 
not  be !  My  eyes  were  deceiving  me.  It  was  some 
illusion.  Feverishly  I  read  again.  Yes,  they  were 
the  same  words.  What  could  they  mean?  Surely, 
surely — Oh,  horror  on  horrors !  They  could  not 
mean  that.  Again  I  read  them.  Yes,  there  they 
were: 

"  If  you  are  fool  enough  to  believe  that  Berna  is  faithful 
to  you  visit  your  brother's  room  tonight. 

"  A  Wellwisher." 

Berna  1  Garry ! — the  two  I  loved.  Oh,  it  could 
not  be  !  It  was  monstrous  !  It  was  too  horrible  !  I 
would  not  believe  it;  I  would  not.  Curse  the  vile 
wretch  that  wrote  such  words !  I  would  kill  him. 
Berna !  my  Berna !  she  was  as  good  as  gold,  as  true 
as  steel.  Garry!  I  would  lay  my  life  on  his  honour. 
Oh,  vile  calumny !  what  devil  had  put  so  foul  a  thing 
in  words?    God!  it  hurt  me  so,  it  hurt  me  so! 

Dazedly  I  sat  down.  A  sudden  rush  of  heat  was 
followed  by  a  sweat  that  pricked  out  of  me  and  left 
me  cold.  I  trembled.  I  saw  a  ghastly  vision  of  my- 
self in  a  mirror.  I  felt  sick,  sick.  Going  to  the 
decanter  on  the  bureau,  I  poured  myself  a  stiff  jolt 
of  whisky. 

Again  I  sat  down.    The  paper  lay  on  the  hearth- 


492  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

rug,  and  I  stared  at  It  hatefully.  It  was  unspeakably 
loathsome,  yet  I  was  fascinated  by  it.  I  longed  to 
take  It  up,  to  read  It  again.  Somehow  I  did  not 
dare.     I  was  becoming  a  coward. 

Well,  it  was  a  lie,  a  black  devil's  lie.  She  was 
with  one  of  the  neighbours.  I  trusted  her.  I  would 
trust  her  with  my  life.  I  would  go  to  bed.  In  the 
morning  she  would  return,  and  then  I  would  unearth 
the  wretch  who  had  dared  to  write  such  things.  I 
began  to  undress. 

Slowly  I  unfastened  my  collar — that  cursed  paper; 
there  It  lay.  Again  it  fascinated  me.  I  stood  glar- 
ing at  it.    Oh,  fool !  fool !  go  to  bed. 

Wearily  I  took  off  my  clothes — Oh,  that  devilish 
note  !  It  was  burning  into  my  brain — it  would  drive 
me  mad.  In  a  frenzy  of  rage,  I  took  it  up  as  if  it 
were  some  leprous  thing,  and  dropped  It  in  the  fire. 

There  I  lay  In  bed  with  the  darkness  enfolding 
me,  and  I  closed  my  eyes  to  make  a  double  dark- 
ness. Ha !  right  In  the  centre  of  my  eyes,  burned 
the  fatal  paper  with  Its  atrocious  suggestion.  I 
sprang  up.  It  was  of  no  use.  I  must  settle  this 
thing  once  and  for  all.  I  turned  on  the  light  and 
deliberately  dressed  again. 

I  was  going  to  the  hotel  where  Garry  had  his 
room.  I  would  tell  him  I  had  come  back  unexpect- 
edly and  ask  to  share  his  room.  I  was  not  acting  on 
the  note!  I  did  not  suspect  her.  Heaven  forbid! 
But  the  thing  had  unnerved  me.  I  could  not  stay  in 
this  place. 

The  hotel  was  quiet.     A  sleepy  night-clerk  stared 


THE   TRAIL   OF   '98  493 

at  me,  and  I  pushed  past  him.  Garry's  rooms  were 
on  the  third  floor.  As  I  climbed  the  long  stairway, 
my  heart  was  beating  painfully,  and  when  I  reached 
his  door  I  was  sadly  out  of  breath.  Through  the 
transom  I  could  see  his  light  was  burning. 

I  knocked  faintly. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir. 

Again  I  knocked. 

Did  my  ears  deceive  me  or  did  I  hear  a  woman's 
startled  cry?  There  was  something  familiar  about 
it — Oh,  my  God! 

I  reeled.  I  almost  fell.  I  clutched  at  the  door- 
frame. I  leaned  sickly  against  the  door  for  sup- 
port.    Heaven  help  me ! 

"  I'm  coming,"  I  heard  him  say. 

The  door  was  unlocked,  and  there  he  stood.  He 
was  fully  dressed.  He  looked  at  me  with  an  ex- 
pression on  his  face  I  could  not  define,  but  he  was 
very  calm. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said. 

I  went  into  his  sitting-room.  Everything  was  in 
order.  I  would  have  sworn  I  heard  a  woman  scream, 
and  yet  no  one  was  in  sight.  The  bedroom  door  was 
slightly  ajar.    I  eyed  it  in  a  fascinated  way. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Garry,"  I  said,  and  I  was 
conscious  how  strained  and  queer  my  voice  sounded. 
"  I  got  back  suddenly,  and  there's  no  one  at 
home.  I  want  to  stay  here  with  you,'  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"  Certainly,  old  man;  only  too  glad  to  have  you." 

His  voice  was  steady.    I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 


494  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

a  chair.  My  eyes  were  riveted  on  that  bedroom 
door. 

"  Had  a  good  drive?  "  he  went  on  genially.  "  You 
must  be  cold.      L.et  me  give  you  some  whisky." 

My  teeth  were  chattering.  I  clutched  the  chair. 
Oh,  that  door !  My  eyes  were  fastened  on  it.  I 
was  convinced  I  heard  some  one  in  there.  He  rose 
to  get  the  whislcy. 

*' Say  when?" 

I  held  the  glass  with  a  shaking  hand: 

"When." 

"  What's  the  matter,  old  man?    You're  ill." 

I  clutched  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Garry,  there's  some  one  in  that  room." 

"  Nonsense !  there's  no  one  there." 

"  There  is,  I  tell  you.  Listen !  Don't  you  hear 
them  breathing?  " 

He  was  quiet.  Distinctly  I  could  hear  the  panting 
of  human  breath.  I  was  going  mad,  mad.  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer. 

"  Garry,"  I  gasped,  "  I'm  going  to  see,  I'm  go- 
ing to  see." 

''  Don't " 

'*  Yes,  I  must,  I  say.     Let  me  go.     I'll  drag  them 


out." 


Hold  on— 


n 


"  Leave  go,  man !  I'm  going,  I  say.  You  won't 
hold  me.  Let  go,  I  tell  you,  let  go — Now  come  out, 
come  out,  whoever  you  are — Ah!  " 

It  was  a  woman. 

"  Ha !  "  I  cried,  "  I  told  you  so,  brother;  a  woman. 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  495 

I  think  I  know  her,  too.    Here,  let  me  see — I  thought 


so. 


I  had  clutched  her,  pulled  her  to  the  light.  It  was 
Berna. 

Her  face  was  white  as  chalk,  her  eyes  dilated  with 
terror.    She  trembled.     She  seemed  near  fainting. 

"  I  thought  so." 

Now  that  it  seemed  the  worst  was  betrayed  to  me, 
I  was  strangely  calm. 

"  Berna,  you're  faint.  Let  me  lead  you  to  a 
chair." 

I  made  her  sit  down.  She  said  no  word,  but 
looked  at  me  with  a  wild  pleading  in  her  eyes.  No 
one  spoke. 

There  we  were,  the  three  of  us:  Berna  faint  with 
fear,  ghastly,  pitiful;  I  calm,  yet  calm  with  a  strange, 
unnatural  calmness,  and  Garry — he  surprised  me.  He 
had  seated  himself,  and  with  the  greatest  sang-froid  he 
was  lighting  a  cigarette. 

A  long  tense  silence.     At  last  I  broke  it. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself,  Garry?  " 
I  asked. 

It  was  wonderful  how  calm  he  was. 

"Looks  pretty  bad,  doesn't  it,  brother?"  he  said 
gravely. 

"  Yes,  it  couldn't  look  worse." 

"  Looks  as  if  I  was  a  pretty  base,  despicable  speci- 
men of  a  man,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  about  as  base  as  a  man  could  be." 

"  That's  so."  He  rose  and  turned  up  the  light 
of  a  large  reading-lamp,  then  coming  to  me  he  looked 


496  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

me  square  in  the  face.  Abruptly  his  casual  manner 
dropped.  He  grew  sharp,  forceful;  his  voice  rang 
clear. 

"  Listen  to  me." 

"I'm  listening." 

"  I  came  out  here  to  save  you,' and  I'm  going  to 
save  you.  You  wanted  me  to  believe  that  this  girl 
was  good.  You  believed  it.  You  were  bewitched, 
befooled,  blinded.  I  could  see  it,  but  I  had  to  make 
you  see  it.  I  had  to  make  you  realise  how  worthless 
she  was,  how  her  love  for  you  was  a  sham,  a  pre- 
tence to  prey  on  you.  How  could  I  prove  it?  You 
would  not  listen  to  reason  :  I  had  to  take  other  means. 
Now,  hear  me." 

"  I  hear." 

"  I  laid  my  plans.  For  three  months  I've  tried  to 
conquer  her,  to  win  her  love,  to  take  her  from  you. 
She  was  truer  to  you  than  I  had  bargained  for;  I 
must  give  her  credit  for  that.  She  made  a  good  fight, 
but  I  think  I  have  triumphed.  To-night  she  came  to 
my  room  at  my  invitation." 

"Well?" 

"  Well.  You  got  a  note.  Now,  I  wrote  that  note. 
I  planned  this  scene,  this  discovery.  I  planned  it  so 
that  your  eyes  would  be  opened,  so  that  you  would 
see  what  she  was,  so  that  you  would  cast  her  from 
you — unfaithful,  a  wanton,  a " 

"Hold  on  there,"  I  broke  in;  "brother  of  mine 
or  no,  I  won't  hear  you  call  her  those  names;  no, 
not  if  she  were  ten  times  as  unfaithful.  You  won't, 
I  say.     I'll  choke  the  words  in  your  throat.    I'll  kill 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  497 

you,  if  you  utter  a  word  against  her.  Oh,  what  have 
you  done?  " 

"  What  have  I  done !  Try  to  be  calm,  man.  What 
have  I  done?  Well,  this  is  what  I've  done,  and  it's 
the  lucky  day  for  you  I've  done  it.  I've  saved  you 
from  shame;  I've  freed  you  from  sin;  I've  shown  you 
the  baseness  of  this  girl." 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Oh,  my  brother,  I've  stolen  from  you  your  mis- 
tress; that's  what  I've  done." 

*'  Oh,  no,  you  haven't,"  I  groaned.  "  God  for- 
give you,  Garry;  God  forgive  you!  She's  not  my — 
not  what  you  think.    She's  my  wifel " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

I  THOUGHT  that  he  would  faint.  His  face  went 
white  as  paper  and  he  shrank  back.  He  gazed  at  me 
with  wild,  straining  eyes. 

"God  forgive  me!  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me, 
boy?    Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  note  more  poignant  than 
a  sob. 

"  You  should  have  trusted  me,"  he  went  on. 
*'  You  should  have  told  me.  When  were  you 
married?  " 

"Just  a  month  ago.  I  was  keeping  it  as  a  sur- 
prise for  you.  I  was  waiting  till  you  said  you  liked 
and  thought  well  of  her.  Oh,  I  thought  you  would 
be  pleased  and  glad,  and  I  was  treasuring  it  up  to 
tell  you." 

"This  is  terrible,  terrible!  " 

His  voice  was  choked  with  agony.  On  her  chair, 
Berna  drooped  wearily.  Her  wide,  staring  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  floor  in  pitiful  perplexity. 

"  Yes,  it's  terrible  enough.  We  were  so  happy. 
We  lived  so  joyously  together.  Everything  was  per- 
fect, a  heaven  for  us  both.  And  then  you  came, 
you  with  your  charm  that  would  lure  an  angel  from 
high  heaven.  You  tried  your  power  on  my  poor 
little  girl,  the  girl  that  never  loved  but  me.  And  I 
trusted  you,  I  tried  to  make  you  and  her  friends.    I 

498 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  499 

left  you  together.  In  my  blind  innocence  I  aided 
you  in  every  way — a  simple,  loving  fool.  Oh,  now  I 
see!" 

*'  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Your  words  stab  me.  It's 
all  true,  true." 

*'  You  came  like  a  serpent,  a  foul,  crawling  thing, 
to  steal  her  from  me,  to  wrong  me.  She  was  loving, 
faithful,  pure.  You  would  have  dragged  her  in  the 
mire.     You " 

"  Stop,  brother,  stop,  for  Heaven's  sake !  You 
wrong  me." 

He  held  out  his  hand  commandingly.  A  wonder- 
ful change  had  come  over  him.  His  face  had  re- 
gained its  calm.     It  was  proud,  stern. 

"  You  must  not  think  I  would  have  been  guilty  of 
that,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I've  played  a  part  I  never 
thought  to  play;  I've  done  a  thing  I  never  thought 
to  have  dirtied  my  hands  in  the  doing,  and  I'm  sorry 
and  ashamed  for  it.  But  I  tell  you,  Athol — that's 
all.  As  God's  my  witness,  I've  done  you  no  wrong. 
Surely  you  don't  think  me  as  low  as  that  ?  Surely 
you  don't  believe  that  of  me?  I  did  what  I  did  for 
my  very  love  for  you,  for  your  honour's  sake.  I 
asked  her  here  that  you  might  see  what  she  was — but 
that's  all,  I  swear  it.  She's  been  as  safe  as  if  in 
a  cage  of  steel." 

"  I  know  it,"  I  said;  "  I  know  it.  You  don't  need 
to  tell  me  that.  You  brought  her  here  to  expose 
her,  to  show  me  what  a  fool  I  was.  It  didn't  mat- 
ter how  much  it  hurt  me,  the  more  the  better,  any- 
thing to  save  the  name.     You  would  have  broken 


500  THE    TRAIL   OF    '98 

my  heart,  sacrificed  me  on  the  altar  of  your  accursed 
pride.  Oh,  I  can  see  plainly  now !  There's  a  thou- 
sand years  of  prejudice  and  bigotry  concentrated  in 
you.     Thank  God,  I  have  a  human  heart  1  " 

"  I  thought  I  was  acting  for  the  best!  "  he  cried. 

I  laughed  scornfully. 

"  I  know  it — according  to  your  lights.  You  asked 
her  here  that  I  might  see  what  she  was.  You  tell 
me  you  have  gained  her  love;  you  say  she  came  here 
at  your  bidding;  you  swear  she  would  have  been 
unfaithful  to  me.  Well,  I  tell  you,  brother  of 
mine,  in  your  teeth  I  tell  you — /  don't  believe 
you!" 

Suddenly  the  little,  drooping  figure  on  the  chair 
had  raised  itself;  the  white,  woe-begone  face  with 
the  wide,  staring  eyes  was  turned  towards  me;  the 
pitiful  look  had  gone,  and  in  its  stead  was  one  of 
wild,  unspeakable  joy. 

"It's  all  right,  Berna,"  I  said;  "I  don't  believe 
him,  and  if  a  million  others  were  to  say  the  same,  if 
they  were  to  thunder  it  in  my  ears  down  all  eternity, 
I  would  tell  them  they  lied,  they  lied!  " 

A  heaven-lit  radiance  was  in  the  grey  eyes.  She 
made  as  if  to  come  to  me,  but  she  swayed,  and  I 
caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  little  girl.  Give  me  your 
hand.  See!  I'll  kiss  it,  dear.  Now,  don't  cry;  don't, 
honey." 

Her  arms  were  around  me.  She  clung  to  me  ever 
so  tightly. 

"  Garry,"  I  said,  "  this  is  my  wife.    When  I  have 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  501 

lost  my  belief  in  all  else,  I  will  believe  in  her.  You 
have  made  us  both  suffer.  As  for  what  you've  said 
— you're  mistaken.  She's  a  good,  good  girl.  I  will 
not  believe  that  by  thought,  word  or  deed  she  has 
been  untrue  to  me.  She  will  explain  everything. 
Now,  good-bye.     Come,  Berna." 

Suddenly  she  stopped  me.  Her  hand  was  on  my 
arm,  and  she  turned  towards  Garry.  She  held  her- 
self as  proudly  as  a  queen. 

*'  I  want  to  explain  now,"  she  said,  "  before  you 
both." 

She  pulled  from  her  bosom  a  little  crumpled  note, 
and  handed  it  to  me.  Then,  as  I  read  it,  a  great 
light  burst  on  me.     Here  it  was : 

"  Dear  Berna: 

"  For  heaven's  sake  be  on  your  guard.  Jack  Locasto  is 
on  his  way  north  again.  I  think  he's  crazy.  I  know  he'll 
stick  at  nothing,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  blood  spilt.  He 
says  he  means  to  wipe  out  all  old  scores.  For  your  sake,  and 
for  the  sake  of  one  dear  to  you,  be  warned. 

"  In  haste, 

"  Viola  Lennoir." 

"  I  got  it  two  days  ago,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I've 
been  distracted  with  fear.  I  did  not  like  to  show 
it  to  you.  I've  brought  you  nothing  but  trouble, 
and  I've  never  spoken  of  him,  never  once.  You  un- 
derstand,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,  little  girl,  I  understand." 

"  I  wanted  to  save  you,  no  matter  at  what  cost. 


502  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

To-night  I  tried  to  prevent  you  going  out  there,  for 
I  feared  you  might  meet  him.  I  knew  he  was  very 
near.  Then,  when  you  had  gone,  my  fear  grew 
and  grew.  There  I  sat,  thinking  over  everything. 
Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  friend,  I  thought;  some  one  to 
help  me.  Then,  as  I  sat,  dazed,  distracted,  the 
'phone  rang.     It  was  your  brother." 

"  Yes,  go  on,  dear." 

*'  He  told  me  he  wanted  to  see  me;  he  begged  me 
to  come  at  once.  I  thought  of  you,  of  your  dan- 
ger, of  some  terrible  mishap.  I  was  terrified.  I 
went." 

She  paused  a  moment,  as  if  the  recital  was  Infi- 
nitely painful  to  her,  then  she  went  on. 

"  I  found  my  way  to  his  room.  My  mind  was 
full  of  you,  of  that  man,  of  how  to  save  you.  I  did 
not  think  of  myself,  of  my  position.  At  first  I  was 
too  agitated  to  speak.  He  bade  me  sit  down,  com- 
pose myself.  His  manner  was  quiet,  grave.  Again 
I  feared  for  you.  He  asked  me  to  excuse  him  for 
a  moment,  and  left  the  room.  He  seemed  to  be 
gone  an  age,  while  I  sat  there,  trying  to  fight  down 
my  terror.  The  suspense  was  kiUing  me.  Then  he 
came  back.  He  closed  and  locked  the  door.  All  at 
once  I  heard  a  step  outside,  a  knock.  'Hush!  go 
in  there,'  he  said.  He  opened  the  door.  I  heard  him 
speaking  to  some  one.  I  waited,  then  you  burst  in 
on  me.     You  know  the  rest." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  As  for  your  brother,  I've  tried,  oh,  so  hard,  to 
be  nice  to  him  for  your  sake.     I  liked  him;  I  wanted 


THE    TRAIL   OF   '98  503 

to  be  to  him  as  a  sister,  but  never  an  unfaithful 
thought  has  entered  my  head,  never  a  wrong  feehng 
sullied  my  heart.  I've  been  true  to  you.  You  told 
me  once  of  a  love  that  gives  all  and  asks  for  noth- 
ing; a  love  that  would  turn  its  back  on  friends  and 
kindred  for  the  sake  of  its  beloved.  You  said:  '  His 
smile  will  be  your  rapture,  his  frown  your  anguish. 
For  him  will  you  dare  all,  bear  all.  To  him  will 
you  cling  in  sorrow,  suffering  and  poverty.  Living, 
you  would  follow  him  round  the  world;  dying,  you 
would  desire  but  him.' — Well,  I  think  I  love  you  like 
that." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 

"  I  want  to  bring  you  happiness,  but  I  only  bring 
you  trouble,  sorrow.  Sometimes,  for  your  sake,  I 
wish  we  had  never  met." 

She  turned  to  Garry. 

"  As  for  you,  you've  done  me  a  great  wrong.  I 
can  never  forget  it.  Will  you  go  now,  and  leave  us 
in  peace?  " 

His  head  was  bent,  so  that  I  could  not  see  his 
face. 

"  Can  you  not  forgive?"  he  groaned. 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  '*  No,  I  am  afraid  I 
can  never  forgive." 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  to  atone?" 

"No,  I'm  afraid  your  punishment  must  be — that 
you  can  do  nothing." 

He  said  never  a  word.    She  turned  to  me: 

"  Come,  my  husband,  we  will  go." 

I  was  opening  the  door  to  leave  him  forever.   Sud- 


504  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

denly  I  heard  a  step  coming  up  the  stairs,  a  heavy, 
hurried  tread.  I  looked  down  a  moment,  then  I 
pushed  her  back  into  the  room. 

"  Be    prepared,    Berna,"    I   said   quietly;    "  here 
comes  Locasto."  ,^ 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

There  we  waited,  Garry  and  I,  and  between  us 
Berna.  We  heard  that  heavy  tread  come  up,  up  the 
creaking  stairway,  stumble  a  moment,  then  pause 
on  the  landing.  There  was  something  ominous, 
something  pregnant  in  that  pause.  The  steps  halted, 
wavered  a  little,  then,  inflexible  as  doom,  on  they 
came  towards  us.  The  next  instant  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Locasto  stood  in  the  entrance. 

Even  in  that  brief  moment  I  was  struclc  by  the 
change  in  him.  He  seemed  to  have  aged  by  twenty 
years.  He  was  gaunt  and  lank  as  a  starved  timber 
wolf;  his  face  was  hollow  almost  as  a  death's  head; 
his  hair  was  long  and  matted,  and  his  eyes  burned 
with  a  strange,  unnatural  fire.  In  that  dark, 
aquiline  face  the  Indian  was  never  more  strongly  re- 
vealed. He  limped,  and  I  noticed  his  left  hand  was 
gloved. 

From  under  his  bristling  brows  he  glared  at  us. 
As  he  swayed  there  he  minded  me  of  an  evil  beast,  a 
savage  creature,  a  mad,  desperate  thing.  He  reeled 
in  the  doorway,  and  to  steady  himself  put  out  his 
gloved  hand.  Then  with  a  malignant  laugh,  the 
fleering  laugh  of  a  fiend,  he  stepped  into  the  room. 

"So!  Seems  as  if  I'd  lighted  on  a  pretty  nest 
of  love-birds.  Ho  !  ho !  my  sweet !  You're  not  sat- 
isfied with  one  lover,  you  must  have  two.    Well,  you 

505 


5o6  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

are  going  to  be  satisfied  with  one  from  now  on,  and 
that's  Jack  Locasto.  I've  stood  enough  from  you, 
you  white-faced  jade.  You've  haunted  me,  you've 
put  some  kind  of  a  spell  on  me.  You've  lured  me 
back  to  this  land,  and  now  I'm  going  to  have  you 
or  die !  You've  played  with  me  long  enough.  The 
jig's  up.  Stand  out  from  between  those  two.  Stand 
out,  I  say!     March  out  of  that  door." 

She  only  shrank  back  the  farther. 

"  You  won't  come,  curse  you;  you  won't  come,  you 
milk-faced  witch,  with  your  great  eyes  that  bore  holes 
in  me,  that  turn  my  heart  to  fire,  that  make  me  mad. 
You  won't  come.  Stand  back  there,  you  two,  and 
let  the  girl  come." 

We  shielded  her. 

*'  Ha!  that's  it — you  defy  me.  You  won't  let  me 
get  her.  Well,  it'll  be  all  the  worse  for  her.  I'll 
make  her  life  a  hell.  I'll  beat  her.  You  won't  stand 
back.  You,  the  dark  one — don't  I  know  you;  haven't 
I  hated  you  more  than  the  devil  hates  a  saint;  hated 
you  worse  than  bitter  poison?  These  three  black 
years  you've  balked  me,  you've  kept  her  from  me. 
Oh,  I've  itched  to  kill  you  times  without  number,  and 
I've  spared  you.  But  now  it's  my  call.  Stand  back 
there,  stand  back  I  say.  Your  time's  come.  Here's 
where  I  shoot." 

His  hand  leapt  up  and  I  saw  it  gripped  a  re- 
volver. He  had  me  covered.  His  face  was  con- 
torted with  devilish  triumph,  and  I  knew  he  meant 
to  kill.  At  last,  at  last  my  time  had  come.  I  saw 
his  fingers  twitching  on  the  trigger,,  I  gazed  into 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  507 

the  hollow  horror  of  that  barrel.  My  heart  turned 
to  ice.  I  could  not  breathe.  Oh,  for  a  respite,  a 
moment — Ugh !  ...  he  pulled  the  trigger,  and,  at 
the  same  instant,  Garry  sprang  at  him/ 

What  had  happened?  The  shot  rang  in  my  ears. 
I  was  still  standing  there.  I  felt  no  wound.  I  felt 
no  pain.  Then,  as  I  stared  at  my  enemy,  I  heard  a 
heavy  fall.  Oh,  God!  there  at  m.y  feet  lay  Garry, 
lay  in  a  huddled,  quivering  heap,  lay  on  his  face,  and 
in  his  fair  hair  I  saw  a  dark  stain  start  and  spread. 
Then,  in  a  moment,  I  realised  what  my  brother  had 
done. 

I  fell  on  my  knees  beside  him. 

"Garry,  Garry!"  I  moaned.  I  heard  Berna 
scream,  and  I  saw  that  Locasto  was  coming  for  me. 
He  was  a  man  no  longer.  He  had  killed.  He  was 
a  brute,  a  fury,  a  devil,  mad  with  the  lust  of  slaugh- 
ter. With  a  snarl  he  dashed  at  me.  Again  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  shoot,  but  no !  He  raised  the  heavy 
revolver  and  brought  it  crashing  down  on  my  head. 
I  felt  the  blow  fall,  and  with  it  my  strength  seemed 
to  shoot  out  of  me.  My  legs  were  paralysed.  I 
could  not  move.  And,  as  I  lay  there  in  a  misty  daze, 
he  advanced  on  Berna. 

There  she  stood  at  bay,  a  horror-stricken  thing, 
weak,  panting,  desperate.  I  saw  him  corner  her. 
His  hands  were  stretched  out  to  clutch  her;  a  mo- 
ment more  and  he  would  have  her  in  his  arms,  a 
moment — ah !  With  a  suddenness  that  was  like  a 
flash  she  had  raised  the  heavy  reading-lamp  and 
gashed  it  in  his  face. 


5o8  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

I  heard  his  shriek  of  fear;  I  saw  him  fall  as  the 
thing  crashed  between  his  eyes;  I  saw  the  flames 
spurt  and  leap.  High  in  the  air  he  rose,  awful  in 
his  agony.  He  was  in  a  shroud  of  fire;  he  was  in  a 
pool  of  flame.  He  howled  like  a  dog  and  fell  over 
on  the  bed. 

Then  suddenly  the  oil-soaked  bedding  caught. 
The  curtains  seemed  to  leap  and  change  into  flame. 
As  he  rolled  and  roared  in  his  agony,  the  blaze  ran 
up  the  walls,  and  caught  the  roof.  Help,  help!  the 
room  was  afire,  was  burning  up.     Fire  !     Fire  ! 

Out  in  the  corridor  I  heard  a  great  running  about, 
shouting  of  men,  screaming  of  women.  The  whole 
place  seemed  to  be  alive,  panic-stricken,  frenzied  with 
fear.  Everything  was  in  flames  now,  burning  fiercely, 
madly,  and  there  was  no  stopping  them.  The  hotel 
was  burning,  and  I,  too,  must  burn.  What  a  hor- 
rible end!  Oh,  if  I  could  only  do  something!  But 
I  could  not  move.  From  the  waist  down  I  was  like 
a  dead  man.  Where  was  Berna?  Pray  God  she 
was  safe.  I  could  not  cry  for  aid.  The  room  was 
reeling  round  and  round.  I  was  faint,  dizzy, 
helpless. 

The  hotel  was  ablaze.  In  the  streets  below  crowds 
were  gathering.  People  were  running  up  and  down 
the  stairway,  fighting  to  get  free,  mad  with  terror, 
leaping  from  the  windows.  Oh,  it  was  awful,  to 
burn,  to  burn !  I  seemed  to  be  caged  in  flames  that 
were  darting  at  me  savagely,  spitefully.  Would  no- 
body save  me? 

Yes,  some  one  was  trying  to  save  me,  was  drag- 


THE    TRAIL    OF    '98  509 

ging  my  body  across  the  floor.  Consciousness  left 
me,  and  it  seemed  for  ages  I  lay  in  a  stupor.  When 
I  opened  my  eyes  again  some  one  was  still  tugging 
at  me.  We  were  going  down  the  stairway,  and  on 
all  sides  of  us  were  sheets  of  flapping  flame.  I  was 
wrapped  in  a  blanket.  How  had  it  got  there?  Who 
was  that  dark  figure  pulling  at  me  so  desperately, 
trying  to  lift  me,  staggering  a  few  paces  with  me, 
stumbling  blindly  on?  Brave  one,  noble  one,  who- 
ever you  be !  Foolhardy  one,  reckless  one,  whoever 
you  be  !  Save  yourself  while  yet  there  is  time.  Leave 
me  to  my  fate.     But,  oh,  the  agony  of  it  to  burn,  to 

burn  .  .  • ! 

****** 

Another  desperate  effort  and  we  are  almost  at 
the  door.  Flames  are  darting  at  us  like  serpents, 
leaping  kitten-like  at  our  heels.  Above  us  is  a  bil- 
lowy canopy  of  fire  soaring  upward  with  a  vast  crack- 
ling roar.  Fiery  splinters  shoot  around  us,  while 
before  us  is  a  black  pit  of  smoke.  Smooth  walls  of 
fire  uprear  about  us.  We  are  in  a  cavern  of  fire, 
and  in  another  moment  it  will  engulf  us.  Oh,  my 
rescuer,  a  last  frenzied  effort !  We  are  almost  at 
the  door.  Then  I  am  lifted  up  and  we  both  tumble 
out  into  the  street.  Not  a  second  too  soon,  for,  like 
a  savage  beast  foiled  of  its  prey,  a  blast  of  flame 
shoots  after  us,  and  the  doorway  is  a  gulf  of  blaz- 
ing wrath. 

!(C  "fC  3|C  ^  ^p  *|fc 

I  am  lying  in  the  snow,  lying  on  a  blanket,  and 
some  one  holds  my  head. 


5IO  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

"  Berna,  is  that  you?" 

She  nods.  She  does  not  speak.  I  shudder  as  I 
look  at  her.  Her  face  Is  like  a  great  burn,  a  black 
mask  in  which  her  eyes  and  teeth  gleam  whitely.  .   .   . 

"  Oh,  Berna,  Berna,  and  it  was  you  that  dragged 
me  out  .  .  . !  " 

5l»  "f*  «1^  'F  ^  T* 

My  eyes  go  to  the  fiery  hell  in  front.  As  I  look 
the  roof  crashes  in  and  we  are  showered  by  falling 
sparks.  I  see  a  fireman  run  back.  He  is  swathed  in 
flame.  Madly  he  rolls  in  the  snow.  The  hotel  is 
like  a  cascade  of  flame;  it  spouts  outward  like  wa- 
ter, beautiful  golden  water.  In  its  centre  is  a  won- 
derful whirlpool.  I  see  the  line  of  a  black  girder 
leap  out,  and  hanging  over  it  a  limp,  charred  shape. 
A  moment  it  hangs  uncertainly,  then  plunges  down- 
ward into  the  roasting  heart  of  the  pit.    And  I  know 

it  for  Locasto. 

****** 

Oh,  Berna,  Berna !  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  her. 
Why  did  she  do  it  ?    It's  pitiful,  pitiful.    .    .    . 

The  fire  is  spreading.  Right  and  left  it  swings 
and  leaps  in  giant  strides.  Sudden  flames  shoot  out, 
curl  over  and  roll  like  golden  velvet  down  the  black 
faces  of  the  buildings.  The  fire  leaps  the  street. 
All  is  pandemonium  now.  Mad  with  fear  and  ex- 
citement, men  and  women  rave  and  curse  and  pray. 
Water!  water!  is  the  cry;  but  no  water  comes.  Sud- 
denly a  mob  of  terror-goaded  men  comes  surging 
down  the  street.  They  bring  the  long  hose  line  that 
connects  with  the  pump-station  on  the  river.     Hur- 


THE    TRAIL   OF    '98  511 

rah!  now  they  will  soon  have  the  flames  under  con- 
trol.    Water,  water  Is  coming. 

The  line  is  laid  and  a  cry  goes  up  to  turn  on  the 
water.  Hurry  there!  But  no  water  comes.  What 
can  be  the  matter?  Then  the  dread  whisper  goes 
round  that  the  man  in  charge  of  the  pumplng-station 
has  neglected  his  duty,  and  the  engine  fires  are  cold. 
A  howl  of  fury  and  despair  goes  up  to  the  lurid 
heavens.  Women  wring  their  hands  and  moan;  men 
stand  by  in  a  stupor  of  hopeless  agony.  And  the  fire, 
as  if  it  knew  of  its  victory,  leaps  up  in  a  roaring 
ecstasy  of  triumph. 

There  we  watched,  Berna  and  I,  lying  in  the  snow 
that  melts  all  around  us  in  the  fierce,  scorching  glare. 
Through  the  lurid  rift  of  smoke  I  can  see  the  friendly 
stars.  Against  that  curtain  of  blaze,  strangely  beau- 
tiful in  its  sinuous  strength,  I  watch  the  black  sil- 
houettes of  men  running  hither  and  thither  like  rats, 
gutting  the  houses,  looting  the  stores,  tearing  the 
hearts  out  of  the  homes.  The  fire  seems  a  great  bird, 
and  from  its  nest  of  furnace  heat  it  spreads  Its  flap- 
ping wings  over  the  city. 

Yes,  there  is  no  hope.  The  gold-born  city  is 
doomed.  From  where  I  lie  the  scene  is  one  long 
vista  of  blazing  gables,  ribs  and  rafters  hugged  by 
tawny  arms  of  fire.  Squat  cabins  swirling  In  mad 
eddies  of  flame;  hotels,  dance-halls,  brothels  swathed 
and  smothered  in  flame-rent  blankets  of  swirling 
smoke.  There  is  no  hope.  The  fire  is  a  vast 
avenger,  and  before  its  wrath  the  iniquity  of  the 
tenderloin    is    swept    away.     That    flimsy    hive    of 


512  THE    TRAIL   OF   '98 

humanity,  with  its  sins  and  secrets  and  sorrows,  goes 
up  in  smoke  and  ashes  to  the  silent  stars. 

The  gold-born  city  is  doomed.  Yet,  as  I  lay  there, 
it  seemed  to  me  like  a  judgment,  and  that  from  its 
ruins  would  arise  a  new  city,  clean,  upright,  incor- 
ruptible. Yes,  the  gold-camp  would  find  itself.  Even 
as  the  gold,  must  it  pass  through  the  furnace  to  be 
made  clean.  And  from  the  site  where  in  the  olden 
days  the  men  who  toiled  for  the  gold  were  robbed  by 
every  device  of  human  guile,  a  new  city  would  come 
to  be — a  great  city,  proud  and  prosperous,  beloved 
of  homing  hearts,  and  blessed  in  its  purity  and  peace. 

"  Beloved,"  I  sighed  through  a  gathering  mist 
of  consciousness.  I  felt  some  hot  tears  falling  on 
my  face.  I  felt  a  kiss  seal  my  lips.  I  felt  a  breath- 
ing in  my  ear. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!  "  she  said.  *'  I've  only 
brought  you  sorrow  and  pain,  but  you've  brought  me 
love,  that  love  that  is  a  dazzling  light,  beside  which 
the  sunshine  is  as  darkness." 

"  Berna !  "  I  raised  myself;  I  put  out  my  arms 
to  clasp  her.  They  clasped  the  empty  air.  Wildly, 
wildly  I  looked  around.     She  was  gone  1 

"  Berna !  "  Again  I  cried,  but  there  was  no  reply. 
I  was  alone,  alone.  Then  a  great  weakness  came 
over  me.    .    .    . 

I  never  saw  her  again. 


THE  LAST 

It  Is  finished.  I  have  written  here  the  story  of 
my  life,  or  of  that  portion  of  it  which  means  every- 
thing to  me,  for  the  rest  means  nothing.  Now  that 
it  is  done,  I  too  have  done,  so  I  sit  me  down  and 
wait.  For  what  am  I  waiting?  A  divine  miracle 
perhaps. 

Somehow  I  feel  I  will  see  her  again,  somehow, 
somewhere.  Surely  God  would  not  reveal  to  us  the 
shining  light  of  the  Great  Reality  only  to  plunge  us 
again  into  outer  darlcness?  Love  cannot  be  in  vain. 
I  will  not  believe  it.     Somehow,  somewhere  I 

So  in  the  glow  of  the  great  peat  fire  I  sit  me 
down  and  wait,  and  the  faith  grows  in  me  that  she 
will  come  to  me  again;  that  I  will  feel  the  soft  caress 
of  her  hand  upon  my  pillow,  that  I  will  hear  her  voice 
all  tuned  to  tenderness,  that  I  will  see  through  my 
tear-blinded  eyes  her  sweet  compassionate  face. 
Somehow,  somewhere ! 

With  the  aid  of  my  crutch  I  unlatch  one  of  the 
long  windows  and  step  out  onto  the  terrace.  I  peer 
through  the  darkness  and  once  more  I  have  a  sense 
of  that  land  of  imperious  vastitudes  so  unfathom- 
ably  lonely.  With  an  unspeakable  longing  in  my 
heart,  I  try  to  pierce  the  shadows  that  surround  me. 
From  the  cavernous  dark  the  snowflakes  sting  my 
face,  but  the  great  night  seems  good  to  me,  and  I 

513 


514  THE    TRAIL    OF    '98 

sink  into  a  garden  seat.    Oh,  I  am  tired,  tired  .    .    . 

I  am  waiting,  waiting.     I  close  my  eyes  and  wait. 

I  know  she  will  come.     The  snow  is  covering  me. 

White  as  a  statue,  I  sit  and  wait. 

****** 

Ah,  Berna,  my  dear,  my  dear!  I  knew  you  would 
return;  I  knew,  I  knew.  Come  to  me,  little  one. 
I'm  tired,  so  tired.  Put  your  arms  around  me,  girl; 
kiss  me,  kiss  me.  I'm  weak  and  ill,  but  now  you've 
come  I'll  soon  be  well  again.  You  won't  leave  me 
any  more;  will  you,  honey?  Oh,  it's  good  to  have 
you  once  again !  It  seems  like  a  dream.  Kiss  me 
once  more,  sweetheart.  It's  all  so  cold  and  dark. 
Put  your  arms  around  me.    .    .    . 

Oh,  Berna,  Berna,  light  of  my  life,  I  kneio  all 
would  come  right  at  last — beyond  the  mists,  beyond 
the  dreaming;  at  last,  dear  love,  at  last!  .  .  . 


THE  END 


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TITLES   SELECTED   FROM 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP'S    LIST 

REALISTIC.  ENGAGING  PICTURES  OF  LIFtl 

THE  GARDEN  OF  FATE.  By  Roy  Norton.  Illustrated 
by  Joseph  Clement  Coll. 

The  colorful  romance  of  an  American  girl  in  Morocco,  and 
of  a  beautiful  garden,  whose  beauty  and  traditions  of  strange 
subtle  happenings  were  closed  to  the  world  by  a  Sultan's  seal. 

THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP.     By  Henry  Russell  Miller. 
Full  page  vignette  illustrations  by  M.  Leone  Bracker. 

The  story  of  a  tenement  waif  who  rose  by  his  own  ingenuity 
to  the  office  of  mayor  of  his  native  city.  His  experiences 
while  "climbing,"  make  a  most  interesting  example  of  the 
possibilities  of  human  nature  to  rise  above  circumstances. 

THE  KEY  TO  YESTERDAY.      By  Charles  Neville 
Buck.     Illustrated  by  R.  Schabelitz. 

Robert  Saxon,  a  prominent  artist,  has  an  accident,  while  in 
Paris,  which  obliterates  his  memory,  and  the  only  clue  he  has 
to  his  former  life  is  a  rusty  key.  What  door  in  Paris  will  it 
unlock?    He  must  know  that  before  he  woos  the  girl  he  loves. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

The  danger  trail  is  over  the  snow-smothered  North.  A 
young  Chicago  engineer,  who  is  building  a  road  through  the 
Hud&on  Bay  region,  is  involved  in  mystery,  and  is  led  into 
ambush  by  a  young  woman, 

THE  GAY  LORD  WARING.     By  Houghton  Townley. 
Illustrated  by  Will  Grefe. 

A  story  of  the  smart  hunting  set  in  England.  A  gay  young 
iord  wins  in  love  against  his  selfish  and  cowardly  brother  and 
apparently  against  fate  itself. 

BY  INHERITANCE.     By  Octave  Thanet.     Illustrated 
by  Thomas  Fogarty.     Elaborate  wrapper  in  colors. 

A  wealthy  New  England  spinster  with  the  most  elaborate 
plans  for  the  education  of  the  negro  goes  to  visit  her  nephew 
in  Arkansas,  where  she  learns  the  needs  of  the  colored  race 
first  hand  and  begins  to  lose  her  theories. 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,  526  West  26th  St.,  New  York 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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V  ^  8  1986 


1^ 


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